


The Lies We Tell Each Other

by WaywardLeviathan



Series: The Lies We Tell Each Other [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Companions, Dunmer Dovahkiin, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Nonbinary Dovahkiin, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Skyrim Main Quest, Slow Burn, Thieves Guild, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-06-11 19:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 61,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15322407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardLeviathan/pseuds/WaywardLeviathan
Summary: When the Thieves Guild assigns an agent to keep watch over their interests in Whiterun, they encounter a young Companion while in the midst of a heist. Twenty years of a tenuous alliance later, they find themselves forced to the frontlines of a divine war to beat back Alduin's incursion.With the end of the world at hand, the will of the gods can't be ignored.Beta'd byLittleMusket





	1. Prelude I

_23rd day of Second Seed, 4E 181_

The air was warm that night, and smelled heavy with rain. It was a welcome break from the uninterrupted snow and dry winds that normally plagued the winters, but had persisted into summer. Though it would still send most not used to the frigid weather of Skyrim shivering in their boots, it was considered rather nice by longtime residents. At the moment the children were at play, and happy that they weren’t forced into wearing layers upon layers of clothes by their parents.

The market was abuzz with the chatter of those simply wishing to talk and enjoy the day and more than those actually wanting to make a purchase of some sort. This didn’t seem to bother the shopkeepers too much as they were just as happy to have a break from the snowy dreariness and be social. The drone of prayers could be heard from the nearby Gildergreen, and the sound of hammers striking on anvils rung from the various forges around town.

Despite the coming storm, the peace would continue for about the next hour: the perfect time for thieves to strike. Vilkas approached a specific house and, pushing the branches of a bush out of the way, thumbed the small, angular carving in the wood. Recently, they had been found in hidden places and in various different-but-still-similar designs on the outside of houses, putting everyone on edge. The first had been found by dumb luck by a child playing hide-and-seek, and afterwards they were specifically sought out—mostly out of curiosity, if nothing else. It didn’t take long for people to realize that when certain ones showed up, something of value often went missing. It couldn’t be coincidence, and for that reason Vilkas patrolled the area as he had for the past few days.

The fact that the marks neither stopped nor increased led many to assume that whoever was behind this either didn’t care that they were now wise to their game, or they continued only as an insult. Either way, most assumed there was little that could be done (even with triple guard patrols), though Vilkas was desperate to prove this general consensus wrong. The newest mark had appeared outside the old Clan Battle-Born house, etched low on the frame of the back door and slightly hidden in the overgrown, wiry grass. Honestly, had everyone in town not been hyper-aware of their existence, this one likely never would have been found.

He had been waiting for quite a time, but didn’t really start to lose hope until he felt that first raindrop on his nose and seeing a few people begin to meander back to their homes, thinking that whoever left the marks had seen him and backed off. While the average person would think that a good thing, it left Vilkas sullen. He was young and eager to prove to the rest of the Companions that he was ready to go out on more important missions than clearing out skeevers (even if he did manage to fuck that up one time, but it came out of _nowhere_ and—nevermind). Single-handedly catching a thief that had eluded the guards for months might just change their minds.

Just as he kicked back and leaned against the wall in defeat, debating whether it would be worth it to stay out and deal with the rain rusting the mail he wore underneath his tunic, he just barely caught a glimpse of fast movement, shrouded in dark clothing at the edge of his vision. By the time he ran over to where it had been, he had given no time for the back door of the marked house to be closed, and it had been left haphazardly ajar. Vilkas couldn’t help but marvel at the thief’s quick work, wondering if they perhaps had a key, as he knew for sure that door was locked, having tried it himself at the beginning of his patrol.

He tried not to dwell on that train of thought as he pressed on, stalking into what turned out to be a kitchen. He scanned the room quickly but carefully for anything out of place, wondering if perhaps this was futile, as he wasn’t quite familiar with the inside of this house. He made his footsteps light as possible as he made his way around the house, (which wasn’t quite as difficult as one might assume, as he hadn’t worn full armor). He stepped lightly, soft leather making barely a sound, but it was the faint clinking of chains he worried over. He strained his ears for the sound of anything at all that might give away the thief, but over time this proved very nearly fruitless.

Every time he heard something—a lock clicking open or a creaking floorboard—the thief had fled the room by the time he made it up there. It was getting to the point of being ridiculous, minutes dragging on until he was there, scrambling around the house for any sign of the thief for a good quarter of an hour at least. Honestly, he was quite impressed that the thief was bold enough to not have run _and_ have evaded him for this long.

His admiration for the thief’s skills was short lived, however, as he heard soft cursing and struggling from upstairs echoed by the soft chirping of songbirds. He made his way up the stairs quick as possible, silence be damned. _Something_ had impeded the thief’s progress, and Vilkas refused to let himself miss this chance. He barged into the room to see the thief frantically trying to unlatch one of the many belt-buckles on their leather armor from where it was stuck and awkwardly strained on the wide-open window. Their position—half in, half hanging out the window—made it nearly impossible to get the latch unstuck in time before getting caught.

Upon hearing Vilkas enter the room, they froze, then sighed in resignation. They muttered something likely uncouth in a decidedly harsh language he didn’t recognize before relaxing their stance, turning, and revealing what little of their face could be seen from underneath their hood. It was a Dunmer who had an oddly calm expression. They smiled easily in a friendly way, but their blood-red eyes gave him a wary look. That (along with the hand slightly twitching as they debated whether or not to continue unlatching the buckle) was the only part of their body language that betrayed how nervous they likely really were.

Vilkas huffed out a laugh of both triumph and amusement, “You’re a bold one, aren’t you? Most thieves would have turned tail and run seeing someone out patrolling.”

Vilkas was surprised when the Dunmer didn’t even hesitate to respond, conversing as if they were old friends. “Aye, I really shit the bed on that one.” They grinned, “Almost didn’t, though.”

“Emphasis on ‘almost’,” He replied coolly.

“Yeah,” They said, then raised a brow, “Well you ‘almost’ didn’t catch me, so how’s that? You almost didn’t even see me get in here.”

Vilkas rolled his eyes, “Well I did, you didn’t, and now you’re under arrest.”

“You’re a bit young for this,” They pointed out, obviously but effectively changing the subject, “And most guards have a partner or two when patrolling an area. Thinking of turning me in yourself and getting that promotion, eh? S’that why you’re not wearing a guard uniform?”

By this point, Vilkas had realized they were stalling in a last-ditch attempt to get away, but decided to go along with it anyhow. “I’m not a guard,” he said simply.

“Really?” They said, leaning forward with a rather interesting expression, “Then what’ve you in the business of catching thieves?”

“I’m with the Companions, if you’re curious as to whether or not I’ve the authority to be making arrests.” He then added, “And yes, in case it wasn’t clear: you _are_ under arrest.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Their grin widened as they exclaimed, “Listen, this little game of ours was a lot of fun, but I’ve really gotta get along. See you, baby doll!”

The Dunmer then, one foot braced on the sill and the other dangling outside, laughed as they launched themself out the window. This was coupled by the sound of tearing leather as Vilkas rushed forward in a futile attempt to perhaps catch hold of them before they successfully escaped. They, of course, got away anyhow and Vilkas made to look out the window. The Dunmer stood on the ground, apparently unharmed and peering back up at him from underneath the leather hood and some dark red hair that had come out of however it was tied back and fallen in front of their eyes.

They performed a mock-salute and disappeared into the shadows. Vilkas clutched at the sill until his knuckles turned white, before heaving a heavy sigh and relaxing his grip. He glanced down at the latch, conscious of the previous sound of ripping leather, and saw the buckle pinned under the window latch with a small strip of torn leather looping precariously around one side. He quickly pocketed it before making his way down the stairs and leaving the premises.

Vilkas debated whether or not he should inform anyone, knowing that the owners of the residence most definitely have a right to know what happened. He then imagined how everyone else back at Jorrvaskr would react. Farkas and Aela would likely laugh, and that wouldn’t be so bad, except Aela would be a little mean about it. Skjor and Kodlak would likely also get angry, as their newest Harbinger had forbade getting in the guards business without informing them first, but at least Eorlund would be nice enough not to mention it.

Yeah, no. Better to let this run its course and not let anybody know he was involved. He was suddenly very glad the residents weren’t home. Vilkas ended up deciding on simply saying he wandered from his patrol in defeat, and the thief struck as soon as he left. It would involve a lot less embarrassment.

He frustratedly fiddled with the buckle as he wandered off, back to Jorrvaskr.

* * *

_30th day of Second Seed, 4E 181_

There was invariably more rain in the east, which was something Niravas always found themself smiling at. The sea may not be near, but the constant humidity from being on the border of a tundra and a land of active volcanoes made Riften feel just a little more like their homelands. They hadn’t lingered long in Whiterun after being caught so embarrassingly by that young guard, only remaining long enough to get their affairs in order—oh, and of course to take on that offer for a drink from that young mercenary that blew into town the night previous. They honestly weren’t in much of a hurry, knowing full well the young guard wouldn’t say a word. The prideful types would never admit to fudging such an easy arrest.

Niravas wandered into the graveyard, making their direction seem as aimless as possible despite the fact that this town was made by thieves, for thieves. Besides, no one had any business in this part of town at this hour, only proving the futility of their efforts. They pressed the little button on the stone coffin with the carving that had become synonymous with _safety_ and _home_.

Pulling the chain behind them, they disappeared into the tunnel with silent footsteps, automatically sticking to the shadows and as far away from obvious light without thinking. Still, even now without proper reason, there would always be a voice in the back of their head saying _don’t get caught, don’t get caught_. No amount of assurances of safety would change that, especially with their recent near-arrest. They would never admit it, but they were actually quite shaken by the encounter.

The Ragged Flagon was warm and—despite the fact that they had fallen on hard times in the past few years—rather cheerful. Vekel was, as usual at the bar, and in the process of cleaning various mugs and tankards as he chatted idly with Dirge. Niruin was in the back, teaching Rune, one of their newest recruits whom he took upon himself to mentor, how to fletch arrows. Delvin was going over an assorted stack of papers detailing who-knows what while nursing a drink straight from the bottle.

Niravas spotted an empty, out-of-the-way table and made a beeline toward it. They draped their sopping cloak over the back of a chair situated near a tri-candle torch, hoping the flames would help it dry, and collapsed into it. Multiple days-travel on horseback never failed to be exhausting despite the fact that they weren’t even the one doing the traveling.

They were no footsteps to warn them as they were broken rather suddenly from their pseudo-rest by a familiar voice, “You’re early.”

They creaked open an eye to see a young girl—Vex, who had joined scarcely a year before—looking extremely cross. Those who didn’t know her might say that was an understatement, as she seemed downright furious, but in the past months, Niravas had become savvy enough to her temper to know that she always came across as at least twice as angry as she really was. Honestly, they never would have imagined a girl who couldn’t have been older than sixteen or so to be such a terrifying force of nature.

Their ears flicked in slight irritation at their revelry being interrupted, “Hm?”

Her scowl deepened, “You weren’t supposed to be back for another two weeks.”

“Plans changed,” They supposed.

Her scowl deepened, “You mean you got caught.”

“ _Almost_.” Niravas had to crack a smile at that, the word forever tarnished by the memory of that young guard.

“That’s not much better,” Came another voice butting into the conversation, “What happened?”

Niravas didn’t have to incline their head to recognize Brynjolf and his most definitely not Nordic accent. They could almost swear it was what was spoken around southeast Vvardenfell. His voice didn’t carry half the venom Vex’s did, and even had a hint of amusement, but it was clear he was concerned. Niravas opted to rise into more of a proper sitting position, knowing they wouldn’t leave them be to take a cat nap until their cloak was dry like they had planned.

“Before I explain, you should know they didn’t see my whole face,” They prefaced, “We have hoods for a reason, darling. And anyhow, I sorely doubt they'll ever tell.

“Why? Who was it?” Brynjolf questioned, incredulous.

“And how do you know they didn’t tell?” Vex added.

Niravas gave them a lopsided smirk, “Order a round, and I’ll give you all the little, sordid details.”

Brynjolf rolled his eyes but complied, and Vex huffed in annoyance. The three sat around the little table, nursing a round of mead. Their new deals with Maven Black-Briar may have a plethora of drawbacks, but at least they got her mead at a staggering discount. Vex and Brynjolf looked at Niravas expectantly for the reason they were caught, likely redhanded in the midst of a theft. Niravas forced themself into wakefulness, and gave their characteristic, ophidian grin as they began their tale.

“My heists were the talk of the town, and no one had a clue as to who did it. We finally struck a break there, y’know, plenty going in and out of the town. Most suspected the mercenaries that blew through, or the Khajiit caravan camped outside. No one had the thought to blame the weary traveler.”

“Oh, just cut to the chase, already. Who caught you?” Vex pressed.

Niravas sullenly slumped off the drama of the storyteller, “Some guard, called themself a ‘Companion’, something or other.”

Brynjolf nearly choked on his drink, “Pardon?!”

Vex looked at the spill in disgust, “Pardon yourself, you just spewed perfectly good mead all over.”

“So, I take it that name has meaning to you?”

“Aye, indeed it does. Have you really not heard of Ysgramor's Five Hundred Companions?”

Vex, having grown up in Skyrim, “Um, yeah, but didn’t wasn’t that way back when?”

“Wait, wasn’t that who founded Skyrim?” Niravas said, “What in Azura’s name does that have to do with this guy?”

Vex cringed, “They aren’t fanatics, are they?”

“Sort of, I guess,” Brynjolf shrugged, “But their past ain’t really all that important unless you want to really understand them.”

“Just gimme the rundown, then, in case this guy _does_ become a problem,” Niravas said.

“You two really need to get out more,” Brynjolf said, “Their order is renowned throughout all of Skyrim as being made up of some of the most talented and honorable warriors in the land. They’re the reason we don’t have a Fighter’s Guild like the rest of Tamriel.”

“Well, shit. Glad this guy was younger’n, you, Bryn. Were they older, they might’ve had the experience to knock me to Aetherius and back.”

“How old were they?” Vex asked.

“Eighteen, Nineteen?” They estimated, “Couldn’t have been more’n twenty. Anyhow, they definitely won't tell. They were young, alone, and trying to catch a thief that'd been plaguing Whiterun for weeks. Kid had something to prove, and they'll never admit they failed.”

Niravas downed the rest of their drink, and rose from the table as they bid Vex and Brynjolf goodnight. Grasping their cloak and frowning as they felt it was still damp despite the proximity of the soft candle flames, they retreated into one of the backrooms and collapsed once more on to one of the various beds. It didn’t take long for them to fall into a restless sleep, still uncomfortable in their armor and everything in their pockets. Undressing at this point just didn’t seem worth it between being out essentially in the open, and getting up being a requirement for doing so.

There were separate bedrooms in the Flagon, of course, but only three. Mercer had one, and the other two were strictly off limits. It hadn’t really been an explicit rule at first, just an unspoken agreement between those who knew Karliah and Gallus. Of course, when a couple of newer recruits attempted to fuck in Gallus’ old room, Mercer made it an official, punishable offense. It had even gone so far that he had boarded up both rooms after that particular incident. Aside from that, those rooms hadn’t been opened in nearly five years.

They awoke a couple hours later, grief settling deep in their bones as their wish to sleep in their own room deluged into such melancholy thoughts. They instead attempted to focus on what Brynjolf had said before they promptly passed out. Patting down their pockets and noting that nothing was missing, they continued back into the Cistern proper. It was a rule that you couldn’t rob your fellow thieves—especially not in the Flagon—but honestly Niravas wouldn’t put it past any of them to take advantage of an easy, sleeping target. They spotted Delvin at the same spot he had been before, collecting his paper, quill, and ink.

They approached him, to which they were regarded with a, “What did you do?”

“Nothing, just have some questions is all,” They said.

“Uh-huh,” Delvin mock-agreed, “Then why are you here? You weren’t due for another two weeks.”

“S’nothing, I swear.”

They were given a deadpan look, “Vex and Brynjolf are making such a fuss about ‘nothing’?”

“Correct,” They affirmed.

Delvin sighed, deciding it best not to press the issue, “Alright, what did you want to ask?”

“You ever hear about the Companions?”

“Of course I have, and everyone and their mother, to boot. Where’ve you been? Under a rock?”

Niravas gestured to their surroundings, “Well, we are in a cave.”

“Shut up. Did you have a run-in with them?”

“One just looking to be coming of age. Look, s’fine,” they assured, “They won't tell more’n they absolutely have to.”

Delvin narrowed his eyes, “I swear this’ll come back to bite you in the ass.”

“Just tell me what they’re all about, yeah?”

“Well, essentially their order originated during the Merethic Era when Ysgramor and his Five Hundred Companions defeated the Falmer and colonized Skyrim. The title ‘Companion’ was passed down by blood for centuries after Ysgramor’s death. After the First Era, they began to recruit from outside and allowing non-Nords.”

“And they’re still a thing? After all those centuries with your short, human lifespans?”

“Aye, though nowadays they’re more or less glorified sellswords,” he explained, “The only difference is that their skills are unmatched and their integrity is steel. Speaking of steel, their weapons are something to watch out for.”

“Why?” Niravas asked cautiously.

“Stronger than any steel has any right to be, and is known to have some very… odd properties.”

Their worry was not dampened, “What d’you mean?”

“There are just some legends about it, which are farfetched enough to be legends in the first place, but realistic enough that it makes you wonder. Anyhow, it can only be crafted in a certain forge in Whiterun, so if you could get your hands on it, well…”

Niravas laughed, “I’ll see what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm finally getting around to rewriting my old Skyrim series! The main issue I felt was my growing writing skill and the fact that I started that with absolutely no outline. Well, now we have a plan. Updates will (hopefully) be once every two weeks for the moment.


	2. Prelude II

_4th day of Hearthfire, 4E 181_

By this point, Vilkas had all but forgotten about the thief; more than four months being ample enough time for the event to pass from mind. The owners of the burgled house—a kind old couple—reported mostly missing jewels and gold, but being Battle-Borns, they were wealthy enough that it hardly affected them financially. They were, however, a lot more guarded, and always made sure that if both of them were out of the house, it would only be for a short while at a time.

Vilkas still felt slightly guilty and awkward, cringing when passing by them or their home in the streets, but the matter hardly seemed important anymore. It was merely a failure; an embarrassment to be easily forgotten on the account that no one but himself and that thief were aware. The couple weren’t the only ones more guarded, as Vilkas kept a sharp eye-out, especially now that he knew what to look for. Fortunately for the townsfolk (but unfortunately for him in the probability of catching the thief), the strange carvings had stopped appearing with such frequency as before.

Vilkas currently sat on a rock at the ledge of the Skyforge, lazily watching as Skjor and Kodlak sparred. The fight would have seemed intense, vicious even, had one not known the two long enough to recognize the subtle variation in whether or not each blow was thrown with an intent to kill. Their feet kicked up dust as they moved quicker than thought, and the air echoed with the clashing of steel. It was almost impossible for either to get in a hit, as they had known each other for decades, longer even than Vilkas had been alive, and had long been up to each others’ tricks. They sparred for what seemed like ages, though taking the occasional break to rest and get some water. Vilkas soon grew bored, hands beginning to fidget and drum on the stone.

Eorlund seemed to notice despite neither turning around, nor having a way to hear the soft taps against the stone past the ringing of hammer on anvil. Vilkas inclined his head as the rhythmic sounds ceased to echo out, followed by a sharp hissing as steam filled the air. Eorlund dusted his hands off, then reached out and pulled down what seemed like a completely normal axe. It was significant only in the sense that it was forged from the characteristic Skyforge Steel.

“Here,” Eorlund suddenly said, holding out an axe, “Take this to up to Hefke, so you have something to do.”

Vilkas took it without hesitation, and weighed it in his hands, “This a commission? What could the court wizard possibly want with an axe?”

“Aye, and it’s not for her; It’s for Jarl Maerlaf,” Eorlund replied, having already turned back to his work, “She’s going to try enchanting it, though I’m not sure how far she’ll get.”

Vilkas gave him a quizzical look, “Does Skyforge Steel impede enchantments?”

“Who knows. In my memory, no one’s ever tried,” Eorlund snorted, “For all I know, it could make the magics stronger.”

Vilkas eyed the axe, wondering what could possibly happen with the mix of enchantments and the unusual properties that Skyforge Steel was infamous for, but ultimately shrugged and dropped down from where he was sitting onto the yard below. Kodlak and Skjor had since decided to stop completely and were relaxing at the tables just outside the backdoor, idly chatting and having already removed the heaviest pieces of their armor. They jumped slightly when Vilkas suddenly found himself on the ground, but shook their heads and rolled their eyes. Whether this was at his having jumped a good distance or the fact that they actually found themselves startled was a mystery. Vilkas took a moment to grin at their reaction, but ultimately ignored them and moved onwards and up to Dragonsreach.

Ascending the stairs, guards eyed Vilkas and the axe in his hands quizzically, but ultimately let him be. As he creaked open the heavy oaken doors, he could hear shouting to one side off the main hall. He recognized Jarl Maerlaf and his eldest son, Jesig deep into one of their arguments. Maerlaf’s age was beginning to show, and Jesig—arrogant and ambitious as they come—took every advantage. Vilkas directed his attention to the older woman to the opposite side of the halls. Her desk was strewn with papers new and old, everything from missives received only in recent days to ancient texts and scrolls. Vilkas knew better than to question the chaotic display as he approached; scholar types always have a method to their madness.

“Hefke,” he greeted.

She glanced up from the notebook she had been writing in, “Ah, Vilkas. I see you have my commission.”

“Aye, and I wish you luck. I don’t know Skyforge Steel’s ever been enchanted before,” he said, holding out the axe.

She plucked it from his hands, observing it keenly before clearing a space and setting it down. “So far as I’m aware, it hasn’t, and I’m hoping not for good reason.”

“The fact that it only exists here, and that us Nords don't view magic so favorably should be reason enough.”

“So we hope.”

They were interrupted as the argument on the other side of the hall escalated, heated debate becoming outright yelling. Maerlaf seemed to be doing a well enough job keeping himself calm, though his son’s increasing rage was beginning to wear on his temper. For his age, he could reach quite a volume, but it wasn’t any match for Jesig’s sheer rage-fueled fuming. Hefke definitely looked her age in that moment as she slumped into her seat and sighed.

“That bad?”

“It’s getting worse, and the whole town knows it.” She blew softly onto the paper, tested the ink with her hand, then closed the book when it came up dry. “I fear for what will come to be if Jesig is made jarl, although...”

Vilkas waited with bated breath, but when the answer didn’t come, “What is it?”

Hefke shook her head, “No, it’s not my place to say.” She then turned to a young Breton girl, “Lisrie, dear? Could you fetch Farengar for me?”

The argument finally reached its apex as there was a final, especially loud peal of shouts followed by the echoing slam of a door. Maerlaf entered the main hall alone, looking more haggard than Vilkas had ever seen him. He perked up then grimaced when he saw that it was not just the court wizard and guards that bore witness to the unpleasantness. He had always adopted a rather casual tone when speaking with citizens, though this was doubly so with the Companions. A brother of his, though having been slain in battle when Vilkas was still young, had been among their ranks. Despite Maerlaf’s nonchalant manner and having known him since he was a boy, Vilkas automatically adopted a more formal tone.

“Vilkas, lad, how’s Jorrvaskr been?” he inquired, forcing cheer, “Better than this sorry house, I hope.”

“We’ve been well, my Jarl,” he answered.

“I suppose you’re wondering about that?” he nodded in the direction of the previously slammed door. “No, no, you’re alright to inquire. It’s not like it’s a secret that mine and Jesig’s interests have not aligned for some time.”

Vilkas gave him a sympathetic look, “I’m sure everything will work out, my Jarl.”

“By the Nine, I hope you’re right, lad. Good day, Vilkas, Hefke.”

Maerlaf then strode out of the room, weariness dogging his steps. Vilkas was just about to turn and leave himself when two figures with rather familiar voices entered the room from a side door each holding a box full of various arcane instruments. The first was a tall lanky man in robes with dark hair and sharp features, who he immediately recognized as Farengar, Hefke’s new apprentice who arrived from the College of Winterhold a little over half a year previous.

The other figure was more of an enigma. The voice was somewhat familiar, that was certain, but he couldn’t quite place it— especially not when he couldn’t even determine where he had seen the face. They were a Dunmer in simple servant’s garb, skirt swishing about their ankles, and had rather long, dark red hair back into a braid that had started to become undone as the day wore on. He didn’t really allow himself to worry, however, as they seemed friendly and sweet-natured, if nervous.

“I’ll have to thank you again for helping me get all this up here. I hate taking multiple trips,” Farengar said, a little winded from carrying such heavy instruments up a flight of stairs.

The servant laughed, not fatigued at all, “I know the feeling, but honestly there’s no reason to thank me. Helping out is what I’m paid to do, dear.”

“Ah, Farengar,” said Hefke, taking not of their arrival. “Place those over there, and I’ll set them up in a moment.”

Farengar gladly complied, the servant following suit as he rushed eagerly over, running his fingers over the delicate, Nordic designs on the blade. “Ooh, is this the axe?”

“Indeed,” Hefke confirmed, “You see the grain of the metal, here?”

“Yes, that is very strange,” he confirmed, eyes filled with wonder.

Vilkas took that moment to back out of the conversation to regard the servant that had accompanied Farengar. They seemed eager to get out of the room, already making their way to the exit in a pace that was trying not to be harried. Beyond those oddities, however, there was something about their mannerisms that set him off, something absurdly familiar that should have been a warning bell. Normally, he would have assumed they were intimidated by being in a palace full of Nords, or perhaps the fact that he was one of the infamous Companions, but something told him that wasn’t quite it.

“Tell me,” he began, “What is your name?”

“Pardon?” the servant exclaimed, startled that Vilkas had paid them mind.

“Your name?” he repeated, “It’s just that you seem familiar, is all.”

The servant then seemingly forced themself to relax. “Ah, my apologies, then. I’m not used to people asking after my name. It’s Tilryn, I’m new to Whiterun.” They inclined their head in greeting.

“Vilkas,” he said, inclining his head in kind.

“Hm, well it was delightful meeting you, Vilkas, but I’m afraid that I must be off,” They said in a hurry.

“Aye, I hear there’s a feast tomorrow night to celebrate Jarl Maerlaf’s seventy-fifth birthday.”

They gave him an odd, sidelong look before shrugging and taking on a much more casual demeanor. “That’s old for humans, yeah?” they questioned in a joking tone, “He certainly looks old, anyhow.”

“Yes, for us that’s very—” They looked up and the waves of familiarity returned at seeing their eyes locked with his. “...Old. Are you certain we haven’t met anywhere… Tilryn, was it?”

Tilryn tensed. “Positive, but really, I’m quite busy and must go. Good day,” they said curtly and with a touch of formality before returning through the door they entered.

* * *

Niravas hurried down the steps, attempting (but likely failing) to make it seem like their rush was due to the impending festivities. Palace servants generally work quite hard on a normal day, and with a celebration such as this, it was no wonder they weren’t questioned. Honestly, the only thing that should be questioned at this moment was why they were assigned here in the first place. Perhaps revenge, of a sort, a test to see just how confident they were in their previous assertion that their close-call was kept a secret. Niravas actually found themself somewhat surprised to see that it was, having gotten here quite easily, and claiming to be someone named Tilryn, who merely wanted a job to keep off the streets. It was staying here that was proving to be a challenge.

Niravas’ early years had, admittedly, been spent in a rather elevated standing. The confidence that comes with being a thief for all the years after, taking whatever they could need or want, does not help their current situation. Playing the demure servant who had lived their whole life under society’s boot was something that they found decidedly challenging. They had to keep a close rein on themself, to not talk back or let their eyes wander to any particularly shiny baubles too much. It was especially difficult when they were there in the first place to rob the palace blind.

That guard, however, promised to make this job damn near impossible. He even seemed to be familiar enough to be friendly with the jarl and court wizard! Niravas got sloppy in their first encounter, and very nearly fucked over their second, as well. If they were to be recognized, then the whole operation would be finished. Actually, they were rather startled they _hadn’t_ been recognized. Who couldn’t change a wardrobe or an accent? He had to have seen enough of Niravas’ face—even from under their hood—to recognize them this blatantly out in the open.

Honestly, when Niravas heard Lisrie, one of the guild agents who kept tabs in Dragonsreach full time, come downstairs they grew worried. When she said the words, “Farengar? The steel you’ve been talking about these past days has finally arrived,” Niravas very nearly went into a full on panic. If she was talking about what they thought she was talking about, they certainly did _not_ have any desire to be involved. Of course, when they ascended the stairs and saw the very person who caused this mess in the first place, they wanted to turn around and never step foot in Whiterun again. Of course, however, they had a job to do, and they were thankful that first encounter involved hoods and poor lighting.

Thankfully for their sake and the sake of this mission, there were people like Lisrie in Dragonsreach, otherwise Niravas would have had a much more difficult time stripping this place of all its valuables, or—should it be necessary—escape. The real issue with failure would be Mercer’s wrath. They really had fallen on hard times, the event five years ago marking the beginning of seemingly endless bad luck. There had been rumors circulating that it was some sort of curse. Having lived during the Guild’s prime, Niravas was almost inclined to agree.

They navigated through the servants’ quarters, years of elaborate heists giving them the skill to do so easily from merely glancing at a few maps before arriving. They headed to the dining hall, where more decorations than usual lined the walls, ceiling, and tables. Making note of the jarl’s eldest son, who had cornered a young Bosmer who Niravas recognized as having been hired a scant two days ago.

The jarl’s eldest seemed to be berating them over something wrong with the table setting or the schedule. Or, that’s what Niravas would have assumed had he not been speaking in a furious whisper rather than his usual shouting. It didn’t really help matters when he stormed off as he noticed them enter the room. Niravas hoped they didn’t have to assume the worst, side eying the Bosmer who met their gaze. They shook their head as if to say, _it's fine, don't worry about it_ , and went back in the direction of the kitchens.

They continued on through, collecting some fresh linens from the small laundry room not far from the jarl’s quarters along the way, fully prepared to explain themselves were they caught. They were about to open the doors to reach the private quarters on the top-most floors, but were stopped when they nearly jostled a rather imposing figure who had creaked open the door just as Niravas reached for it. She was tall for a Dunmer, standing on par with the average Nord, and Niravas instantly recognized her to be Irileth, the jarl’s personal housecarl. Her armor clinked softly with each step despite the fact that it was leather, indicating she had mail on underneath, and her hands twitched rapidly as she nearly made a motion to reach for her sword.

“Ah, it’s merely a servant,” she huffed in relief, “Tell me, are you new? I don’t seem to know your face.”

“That I am, housecarl,” They replied, turning that fear into a show of shyness.

She narrowed her eyes, “Shouldn’t you be helping with the feast?”

“I’ve been assigned to change the linens in some of the rooms,” they explained, hesitating just enough to show nervousness at speaking to such an imposing figure, but not enough to betray guilt. “There may be celebrations tomorrow, but they still need cleaned.”

Their alibi flowed easily, as it wasn’t totally a lie. The Guild agents had kept close watch over the work roster, making sure to assign “Tilryn” to jobs pertaining to the upper floors where the best loot was to be found.

There was still suspicion in her eyes, but Irileth merely shrugged, “Don’t let me keep you.”

Niravas nodded without meeting her gaze and stepped aside, allowing her to pass. There were five bedrooms reserved for the jarl’s family, but only four were in use. They were occupied by Jarl Maerlaf himself and his three sons, Hrongar, Balgruuf, and of course that pompous twat with anger issues: Jesig. Most knew that you could tell a lot about a person just by looking at their bedrooms, but few knew what to look for.

The way it was organized, whether or not their bed is already made, what is left out on their desk; every little thing reveals a secret of its own about its owner. It was fascinating really: a whole family’s story laid bare. Being a thief was a profession that suited Niravas’ sticky fingers just fine, but being able to gleam out thousands of stories from a single room was definitely entertaining. If only it weren’t for the fear of when the occupants would return, Niravas likely would have stayed and searched every nook and cranny.

Niravas, wandered through each of the rooms, nicking various trinkets and sundries. A few weren’t even very valuable, but the light hit them at just the right angle and they ended up in the large pockets in Niravas’ dress before they could stop themself. Self control was always a problem in these large, wealthy homes, especially here. Taking too much would tip everyone off before they were ready to go, as they had only been here a week and hoped to stay two. Even still, they changed the linens, scrunching their nose slightly as they were just a tad put off that this was necessary to prove their ruse.

Hrongar’s room was full of weapons of every sort and a few collections of traditional Nordic armor as well. He had few books, but most were old Nordic folktales and histories, labeling him an idealistic warrior who valued honor and was proud of his country. Niravas may not be able to relate as much, but they could certainly respect that. Balgruuf’s room was a bit more tidy, and it contained a far cry more books than his younger brother. Niravas had observed all of the jarl’s family during their stay here, and knew full well Balgruuf had the tendency to be a tad timid, so it wasn’t any wonder he had such an attitude when surrounded by a family of warriors while he fancied himself a scholar. Jesig’s room was startlingly neat. Niravas had honestly expected to walk into a pigsty, and this fact made Niravas’ brow furrow in confusion for a moment.

It was the jarl’s room, however, that proved to be most telling. It was almost as neat as his eldest son’s, though it was obvious that any mess or disorder wasn’t left due to blatant negligence, but harried work. It was the little things, really. Little things Niravas was trained to spot in order to get the best read on a target. The way the shoes were left by the door, the fact that the bed was made but still crooked and wrinkled, the clothing that was still in the hamper but had sleeves and trouser legs hanging off the side. It all told a rather singularized story: that of a _very_ stressed person.

The desk held the worst of it, papers strewn every which way. Niravas made their way over, footsteps subconsciously growing completely silent, soft leathers not even creaking the old but well-preserved floorboards. They carefully shifted through the papers, and making sure that they never came entirely off the desk to ensure that they could be placed down in precisely the same position. They kept their ears perked for footsteps in the halls, attention focused on reading but idly attuned to the slightest noises. It was one of the first skills they had to learn when becoming a thief, and one they had to perfect when they had begun tampering with logbooks and ledgers.

The handwriting was still immaculate compared to some of what Niravas had seen, but contrasting it to what they were used to a noble’s handwriting looking like, it was harried and shaky. It had grown especially so of those written within the past few days. Most of the missives were of little consequence: the growing hostilities between Skyrim and the Empire, replies to invitations to a few political events, etcetera. It wasn’t until they reached a document that seemed to have been forced to the bottom of the stack, the lettering having been almost forced to look as neat as possible. Niravas started slightly upon reading it, but silently placed it back under all the other papers.

Best not to get involved with these sorts of things.


	3. Prelude III

_5th day of Hearthfire, 4E 181_

That morning began like any other, as Vilkas awoke with the dawn. Rather, everyone else did, and he woke with the ruckus of the day’s beginnings. He lay there for a bit, wondering if it was worth it trying to get back to sleep. Ultimately, however, his grumbling stomach and full bladder weighed out any grogginess. Going about his morning routine, he didn’t really find himself truly awake until sitting down in the main hall for breakfast, where Tilma brought him a cup of coffee.

He thanked her and sipped at it awhile until he no longer felt the desire to curl up in bed and be dead to the world. He stared into the dark, bitter liquid and wondered how unpleasant mornings without it would be. He had never been much of a morning person, but with the growing civil war beginning to disrupt various trades (including regular shipments from Valenwood that brought various items such as coffee beans), he might have to become one. It was a relatively obscure drink up this far north, though Athis swore by it after his travels across Tamriel.

He broke off that chain of thought, however, when Farkas approached. He seemed rather cheery and was decidedly lacking a mug of his own. He was simply this awake without any prompting, and Vilkas was acutely aware that his brother was one of the few people who seemed to actually _enjoy_ mornings, only needing the occasional cup of black tea for a pick-me-up. He sat down on the bench next to his rather disgruntled brother.

“Are you ready for tonight?” said Farkas.

He fixed his brother with a confused look, which came across as more of a glare in his sleepy haze. “Hm? Oh. Shit, the feast is tonight.”

“Aye, how could you forget?”

“I’ve had something on my mind lately.”

Farkas glanced at him oddly, but he knew better than to pry, especially this early in the morning. He merely shrugged at left. Vilkas wasn’t lying when he said that, though. He did indeed have something on his mind: that odd servant. What had they said their name was? Tamlen? No. Tylmen? No. Tilryn! Yes, that was it. They were oddly familiar—though he couldn’t say from where—and when he had pointed this out, they excused themself as quickly as possible.

True, the seventy-fifth birthday was a relatively important celebration in Skyrim. It’s the day Nords will reminisce about their youth and officially announce their will. For a ruler like Maerlaf, it’s the day he officially names his heir. The celebration would be massive, with all the town in attendance, and thereby a servant would have endless work to do (especially the day before). Due to this, he genuinely wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, but something about them made him wary.

For the moment, however, it was time to prepare for the feast, and he opted to put them out of mind for the moment. The Circle would be sitting at the main table with the jarl himself and all the other important figureheads of Whiterun. Him and Farkas may not be officially members of the Circle just yet, but they would be when they come of age in the autumn.

Kodlak had decided that if Aela were allowed to sit with them, being only about half a year or so older, then it was close enough and they should be able to anyhow. Vilkas had a sneaking suspicion that most of that leeway came from the fact that Aela didn’t want to sit with a bunch of old codgers alone, and badgered Kodlak until he relented. He doubted Maerlaf would protest too much, having known them since they were babes.

Everyone dressed in their nicest clothes in preparation for the feast, though that wasn’t really saying much. For people like them who made a living fighting, “nice clothes” typically meant that it was plain but not too worn. Well, if anyone had a problem with it, they could take it up with the fiercest warriors in all of Skyrim. Vilkas debated whether or not he should put mail on under his tunic, but opted against it, as it tended to produce a characteristically acrid scent. Instead, he kept a shortsword belted at his hip and a pair of daggers in his boots. Neither were his preferred weapon-of-choice, but they would do in a pinch. He never did like being unarmed.

By the time everyone was ready, they all collectively made their way up to the Cloud District. No one was left in Jorrvaskr, and they hoped the locks would do to keep any thieves (particularly _that_ thief) out. Being no simple holiday feast, it would be considered a personal slight, however, were one to simply miss one of the most important celebrations in Whiterun in years. The whole town hoped it would be enough to deter crime for the night, and that the ale provided at the keep would sway their thoughts from straying in such worrisome directions.

Dragonsreach was practically overflowing. There were about a dozen large tables set out in the main hall and a dozen more outside in the courtyard. Thankfully, there was not a cloud in the sky, and a soft breeze coupled with the typical northern chill kept the sun from being overbearing. The perfect weather for outdoor celebrating and keeping the indoor celebrating from getting too overcrowded.

Large casks of various ales and spirits were placed in various places in close proximity to each of the tables, and bite-sized finger-foods were absolutely stacked up on little buffet tables inside to tide the people over for now. Most of the town had already arrived, including exasperated parents trying to keep their children from making too much of a mess when the party hadn’t even officially begun yet. There was a particular group of people near the large, main entrance of Dragonsreach excitedly chattering over the latest gossip.

_Did you hear about who the Battle-Born heir got caught with?_

_Did you hear what happened over at the temple?_

_Did you hear about that gorgeous new stranger in town?_

_Did you hear about..?_

_Did you hear..?_

Aela snorted at them, and Vilkas couldn’t help but to roll his eyes. It really was just mindless, driveling blather. Jarl Maerlaf himself being a relatively informal person despite the formality of his title, did not announce his arrival as would be custom. As they walked past, Vilkas overheard Jesig grumbling about it to Hrongar. He wished to announce his own arrival but knew it would be extremely frowned upon, as it would imply his presence was of more import than the subject of the celebrations. Eventually, Proventus stood in front of the crowd, tinking a silver spoon against a goblet, and announced that everyone take their seats, as the main course was soon to be served.

There was no single dish that could be considered a “main course”, however. There were plates of mammoth steak, horker loaves, grilled leeks, pheasant roast, and venison. There were bowls of apple-cabbage stew, potato soup, tomato soup, clam chowder, and even mammoth cheese. There were entire cartfulls of pastries brought in that held everything from braided bread to apple dumplings to boiled creme treats. Entire wheels of cheese were being carved up and served, and all the attendees were either stuffing their faces, gossiping outrageously, or both—impressively enough. It was as if all the keep’s larders (plus some) had been totally emptied.

Near the back, the throne had been temporarily put aside to make way for a single, large, elliptical table where the town’s most important figures all sat at. The heads of both Clan Battle-Born and House Grey-Mane and their immediate family sat on opposite sides of the table to ensure that old hostilities between the two families were kept to a minimum. The Circle also sat there, and Vilkas had Aela and Farkas to either side of him.

Hrongar and Balgruuf looked the same as ever, the former excited jabbering tales of glory while the latter was a bit more shy and reserved when contributing to conversation. The eldest brother seemed jumpy, but otherwise attempted to be on his best behavior, which made everyone present take a breath of relief. The jarl himself though, seemed… off. There was a certain resignment to his actions and a pensive reflection in his eyes that put Vilkas on edge. It was as if he was expecting something to happen at any moment, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was powerless to stop it.

The youngest son had eventually dragged out Maerlaf’s usual, more jovial self, however, when he mentioned an old hunting tale where he brought down a frost troll. Vilkas couldn’t help but smile, as he had heard the story countless times when he was a child. It was Maerlaf’s favorite story to tell (to the point that half the town knew it by this point), and as it was a time to tell such tales, he happily obliged. Vilkas turned slightly, only vaguely listening to the table’s conversation, and watched the rest of the party for a moment. He started when he saw a familiar figure setting down a platter full of salmon steak, and told Aela he needed to piss before wandering over to them.

“Tilryn?” he called out.

They tensed, but turned and gave him an easy smile, “Why, hello there. You here for any particular reason, or has one of the casks gone dry?”

He then quickly realized that he actually didn’t have a reason, “Listen, ah… It’s been driving me mad. Are you completely sure we haven’t met before?”

They snorted at his feeble attempt, “Maybe I’ve just one of those faces. But anyhow, I’m gonna let you off the hook here. See the jarl?”

Vilkas turned, “Aye, what about him?”

“He’s acting odd, yeah? Well, something’s going down tonight, and he knows about it. Keep a close eye.”

And with that, Tilryn sauntered off and was lost in the crowd of servants flitting in and out of the room. Though Vilkas didn’t trust them any farther than he could throw them, he did keep their advice. Maerlaf had been acting incredibly odd that night, and he intended to find out why. Keeping a closer watch, he soon noticed that every plate placed before him was taken back untouched.

He craned his neck slightly to see that not even a single sip had been taken from his tankard. Jesig himself noticed as much as well. He pointed out to his father that the ale was now likely warm, and advised that he order over a new drink. He sighed with a weariness that told wonders of his years, but agreed and did so. A Bosmeri servant quickly brought a goblet of wine.

The jarl then, goblet in hand, cleared his throat, and the entire hall went silent.

* * *

Throughout the celebrations, Niravas held back near the servants’ entrance to the main hall. Occasionally, they were called to aid in bringing dishes in and out of the kitchen, but otherwise merely mingled with the attendees. A flirtatious hand here, a nod for misdirection, and by the end of the night they had filled most of the pockets hidden on their person close to bursting. Ah, parties were the best.

They debated whether or not it would be worth trying this little scam up by the jarl’s table, but decided it would be a truly terrible idea. Nearly everybody at that table had a weapon on them, and they really didn’t want that guard from before—Vilkas—to notice their presence. If he manages to put two and two together and realize the person who he almost arrested and themself were one and the same, things could go south much more quickly than they’d like. And things _would_ go south, if the jarl and his note was anything to go by. He looked like a man walking to the gallows, and Niravas almost pitied him.

Still, they were adamant about remaining objective about the situation. The only reason this whole debacle mattered in the first place was because it would disrupt the operation here. Honestly, the Guild had the most dreadful luck lately, and Niravas was beginning to rethink any initial skepticism at the curse. They had sent a letter ahead to Mercer, describing all this, but it wouldn’t arrive for another couple of days.

Their eyes widened as they watched the same Bosmer from before approach the jarl’s eldest and whisper in his ear. Jesig turned to glare at him, but otherwise didn’t press whatever the issue was. Niravas set down a platter at the instructed table and was about to move closer to get an ear in on their conversation, but was interrupted. The very person whose attention they wanted to avoid approached quite suddenly, but before he could make an ass of himself, they advised him to “keep an eye out”, before promptly leaving.

Dusk then began to fall, and—as is tradition—the more ceremonial aspect of the celebrations was to begin. Maerlaf knew this just as well as anyone else in the room, as he looked pensively at the inside of his goblet. No one else except Vilkas, who watched this action with rapt attention, seemed to notice. He stood, and the crowd ceased all side conversations.

“People of Whiterun!” Maerlaf began, “As you all well know, today marks my seventy-fifth year on this earth, and my forty-second year since ascending to the title of jarl. My time left before passing is not long yet, and so I would like to say this, to all of you. It is now time to officially name my heir!”

Maerlaf waited patiently as the crowd erupted in a crooning huzzah, but quickly quieted in rapt attention.

“I am aware that this goes against an age-old custom, but I swore an oath upon taking the throne to do everything in my power to give this city its best chance. And I believe that chance lies _not_ in my first born, but in my second born: Balgruuf. Rise, my son. In you, I see the future of these people.”

Balgruuf himself looked like he might be sick in that moment, and he looked in horror between his father and elder brother. Maerlaf reached into his coat and pulled out a golden ring with inlaid with a deep blue stahlrim stone. He placed it on Balgruuf’s hand and held it up for all the citizens to see.

“My people! I present to you your new regent: the man you shall, upon my passing, know as Jarl Balgruuf!”

The citizens, confused and more than a little drunk, cheered anyhow. Balgruuf opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a near-soundless wheeze. He turned to look at his father, who merely nodded at him. He took a breath and steeled himself.

“Citizens of Whiterun, I… can’t say this is expected. That does not mean, however, that I don’t plan to fully deliver on the oath that ascending to the title of jarl requires. I will give my all to prove that I have what it takes to rule with a fair mind and a kind heart, that I will not hold my own desires over the needs of you, my people, who so depend on me to be everything that I can.”

As Balgruuf’s sudden speech began to falter, his father picked up the slack.

“A toast,” he cried, “For our future Jarl of Whiterun!”

The crowd practically roared and rippled in their cheering as they held up goblets and tankards filled with motley drinks. Maerlaf himself raised his own goblet of wine and let out a shaky breath before downing half of it in a single drink. Jesig, who had been glaring at his father and brother throughout the entire display, gripped his own tankard with enough force to turn his knuckles white, and he now watched with bated breath. Then the coughing fit started.

It was violent, racking Maerlaf’s old body with such a force that he would have crumpled to the floor had he not latched onto both Balgruuf and the table like a lifeline. As he finally could not draw in another breath, he collapsed to the table. It didn’t escape Niravas’ notice that his gaze was fixated on his eldest who fought back a triumphant grin. As everyone frantically crowded their precious jarl, Niravas feigned panic and ran to the servants’ entrance. It wouldn’t do to be caught up in all of this, and they had an assassin to catch.

Their ears twitched as they heard soft, rapid footfalls further down the hall. They didn’t stop, merely smoothing over their false expression and continuing on running with practice-silent steps. It was a bit difficult in skirts, but they managed to outpace the other individual who only then noticed he was being chased down. Niravas only glimpsed the tail-end of a cloak whip around the corner before they leapt forward and grasped it.

The runner made a strangled noise as his cloak was suddenly holding him back by the neck, and they fell backwards, flat on their ass. Niravas didn’t even blink when they recognized the very same Bosmer from before, and they flicked a dagger out of the folds of their skirt. Grasping at the Bosmer’s hair and holding the dagger to their throat, they dropped the faux cadence they adopted in order to pose as “Tilryn”.

“Care to tell me what you’re doing here? This is Guild territory, darling.”

“I-I…” Wide, honey eyes stared back in horror, “Thought I saw the… assassin.”

Wow, they were actually terrible at this. “You know, I think I did, too. Who d’you work for? Is the Brotherhood now sending out bumbling whelps?”

“N-no, I’m freelance.”

“That explains why you don’t know how to respect the fact that _I_ have jurisdiction here. You’ve just disrupted some very important work. Now, then… Who hired you?”

They didn’t answer.

“Seems you’ve some criminal’s honor after all. It was the son he booted from the throne, innit?”

The assassin’s breath hitched at that, throat splitting slightly at the blade, but they still refused to answer in as many words.

“Well, can’t have any loose ends, now can I?

But before they could drag the dagger across their throat, a voice called out, “Or you could hand them over.”

Niravas froze, inadvertently pressing the blade ever-so-slightly more into the already present wound. “You know, _baby doll_ ,” And they put much emphasis on the pet-name, “I don’t normally give over goods for free.”

“You don’t think you’ll get a reward for handing the jarl’s assassin over?”

“What I think is that you’ll turn the both of us in.”

“And if I assure you walk free? That no one knows your true purpose here?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“But what if—”

Vilkas was cut off as rapid, armored footsteps could be heard thundering down the hall. Niravas yanked the Bosmer up, and threw them and the dagger into Vilkas. They gave him a look that said _follow my lead_ , and suddenly pulled a small knife out of their boot, flung it to the side, and pinched their arm so hard it was just shy of drawing blood and caused their eyes to water. They then proceeded to press themself up against the wall, and scream.

The footsteps accelerated, and not seconds later, a patrol of guards headed by Irileth rushed around the corner. Vilkas then shoved the Bosmer against the wall and placed the dagger in the same place it had been before. They squeaked in protest, and looked about ready to wet themself as the guards analyzed the situation.

“This servant was attacked,” Vilkas quickly said before the guards could act.

All eyes went to Niravas, and Irileth spoke up, “Is this true?”

“Y-yes…” They stammered, all teary-eyed, “I watched them attempt to leave, and when I went to confront them, they attacked me with that knife.” They gestured to the knife that had been thrown into the corner.

“I think this was the one who poisoned the jarl trying to make a getaway,” Vilkas affirmed, “This was the one that brought the wine.”

It didn’t take much convincing after that. The assassin was dragged away sobbing, and he was too stupid to come up with a lie to go against theirs, or even out Niravas for openly admitting they were Thieves Guild. Niravas was fighting to keep up their blameless victim charade and not roll their eyes because honestly, if this is how you act when getting caught, then why offer to poison someone in the first place?

Jesig’s jaw dropped when he saw the Bosmer drug in a balling mess. It must have been then that he realized he hired a complete amateur. But, like most criminals, it seemed this amateur also had a vindictive side. The guards only had to ask once before they openly admitted, with a show of gestures and enraged, blubbering screeches that it was the jarl’s eldest son. Jesig had feigned outrage that they would dare accuse him of such an act, but his defensive lies were cut short. While he was actively being shoved to his knees, hands shackled behind him, Balgruuf strode forwards.

“I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t… I couldn’t… I...” He took a deep, shuddering breath to steel himself. “I knew. The moment father collapsed, I knew, but I refused to believe it.”

Jesig was now done with refuting his deeds, “He denied me my birthright.”

“You couldn’t have known he would do that!”

“Open your eyes, Balgruuf! The whole fucking town knew he would. We’ve known for months, and you all stood by as my birthright was _stolen_ from me.”

“What was I to do? This is hardly my fault.”

“You could’ve refused!”

Jesig’s words echoed throughout the throne room, all the guests silently spectating. Balgruuf opened his mouth to speak, but closed it as his lip quivered. He merely gestured at the guards to take his brother away. Everything after that progressed quickly, if chaotically. Guests were ushered out of the cloud district and prompted to return to their homes. Most, especially families with children, complied without question.

Niravas was exempt from cleaning up the festivities due to their little display with the assassin. Instead, however, both they and Vilkas were brought in for further questioning. Irileth gave them an odd, scrutinizing look during the entire process, as if she didn’t believe a word but still had no proof dissuading their story. She even kicked Vilkas out of the room to make sure they weren’t corroborating.

“And you’re sure this is a completely accurate account of what occurred?” Irileth pressed.

“Yes, I’m certain,” Niravas affirmed. Internally, they laughed, as they were fully aware she knew they were lying through their teeth.

“And the marks on your arm?”

“Where he grabbed me.”

She eyed them a while longer, then sighed and gestured to the door, “Fine. You have my leave to go.”

Niravas nodded, and made their way to the door. Vilkas was waiting outside, arms crossed and giving them a similar look to what Irileth had given them. It was nearly midnight, and both Masser and Secunda shone down upon them, stars twinkling mischievously around them. Niravas finally let the facade drop and they gave him their trademark ophidian grin. His frown only deepened as they continued to the exit of the Cloud District.

“So, what now, baby doll?”

“Are you really going to keep calling me that?”

“Naturally.”

He huffed, “Well, Tilryn, you should be free to go.”

“Fantastic,” and they made way to leave, but stopped before the first step, “Oh, and incidentally, that’s not my name.”

Niravas took a moment to appreciate the startled expression on Vilkas’ face before rushing down the steps and out of sight. They didn’t look forward to facing Mercer and explaining in more detail than that quick letter could contain. They would have to trust Lisrie to keep them posted on what would happen in this town in the coming weeks, as they would also have to lay low. They may have had nothing to do with the murder, but if they get caught in one too many crime scenes in such short succession, well… it wasn’t going to be good.

They wondered for a moment if Vilkas would tell the guards the real reason they were present throughout all of this. It may not have been as obvious as their last heist, but they were clearly in Dragonsreach to rob the place blind. They still were suspicious, but eventually dropped the thought. If he had such intentions, he wouldn’t have played along. The real question they struggled with was _why_. This time, he had no honor to lose if he had just turned Niravas in.

They looked up from where they were hiding on the outskirts of the town, about to make their way down to the Plains District. They could just barely make out a form standing on top of the steps. Another figure, almost exactly the same in height and build from what they could tell, approached.

Niravas lost sight of them when they stepped down the staircase, and out of the moonlight.

* * *

_7th day of Hearthfire, 4E 181_

Vilkas sat at one of the tables out back of Jorrvaskr, watching the moons shine down without a word. It had been two days, and still his mind was reeling. He should have known, because evidently that thief and even the jarl himself knew! If Maerlaf knew, why didn’t he do anything? He just sat there and drank the wine, knowing full well it would kill him.

Apparently, he had been so sure about the event that he had written about it. Balgruuf, Hrongar, and Irileth went into the jarl’s room to collect his belongings, and found a single letter on the desk, wax seal still ever-faintly warm. Balgruuf’s name had been scrawled as neatly as a man who was about to walk to his death could muster. It detailed everything from his intention to anoint Balgruuf as his true heir to how it would likely make Jesig’s selfishness boil to outright murderous intent. He knew, and this was the only action he made against it: a warning that he had left in case Jesig made his move before the announcement.

“Vilkas?” Aela called out after entering the training yard.

He didn’t answer, merely continued to gaze out into the sky.

“Oh, too good for words, are we?” Aela joked.

The silence dragged on for a moment longer before, “I’m just so fucking tired,” he admitted, “It’s been two days, and I’m still just so…”

Aela’s normally stern expression softened at that, and she wordlessly put a hand on his shoulder.

“How’s Farkas holding up?” He asked, finally looking up to meet her gaze.

“Badly,” She admitted, “I found both him and Hrongar drunk off their asses at the Bannered Mare yesterday.”

“I hear Balgruuf hasn’t been seen since the feast, so I’d imagine he’s taking it even worse.”

“That’s the honest truth. He blames himself, I bet.”

They both turned their sight skyward, now both taking part in silence.

“But,” Aela interjected, “That’s not why I’m here. You caught the assassin didn’t you?”

Vilkas started at that, but nodded, “Aye, but it wasn’t just me. There was that servant, Tilryn. They confronted the assassin after he tried to flee the feast.”

“Well, that was stupid,” Aela scoffed.

That made Vilkas crack a smile, but it quickly fell. “That it was. Anyhow, the assassin pulled a knife, and I intervened.”

Aela narrowed her eyes, “Seems a bit too convenient to me.”

“That’s what Irileth said, as well, but it’s the truth,” Vilkas shrugged, letting the same alibi he had been repeating for the past few days flow easily.

Skjor then opened the door and leaned out, ushering them in, “Come on, inside. It’s late.”

Vilkas complied without much of a fuss, but Aela huffed and claimed she wanted to go out for a bit. As Aela stormed away, Vilkas ventured into the living area and his quarters, but saw Kodlak exit his own. Vilkas and Farkas had been somewhat close to Maerlaf and his family, them being the same age as Hrongar, and both felt his loss keenly. Kodlak, however, had been quite close with the man himself since moving back to Skyrim. He’d be able to answer Vilkas’ questions best.

“Master—ah, Kodlak?”

Kodlak snapped his head up, having been deep in thought, “What is it, lad?”

“I…” He paused, wondering if it was even appropriate to ask when he was in such grieving, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh... Yes, of course. Go ahead.”

“Why didn’t Maerlaf do anything?”

There was a long silence before Kodlak answered in almost a whisper, “I don’t know, my lad.” He then sighed and merely said, “Get some sleep, you’re going to need it for tomorrow.”

They both were quite aware that being exhausted and sleep deprived wouldn’t make witnessing the coming execution any more pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you may have noticed that I bumped up the rating? Well, I heard that coarse language is reason for an M rating, so better safe than sorry. Also? I apologize in advance for this chapter.
> 
> And I just want everyone to know that the ring was a shameless, direct reference to The Prince of Egypt.


	4. Prelude IV

_29th day of Last Seed, 4E 182_

Directly following the little incident at Dragonsreach, Niravas hadn’t lingered as they had before when Vilkas originally caught them. Too many people now knew their face, and the prospect of being caught was simply too dangerous. They very nearly blamed the so-called “curse” for all these setbacks interrupting their work in Whiterun, especially that those sent out to secure Guild interests in other provinces were experiencing similar occurrences.

Everything from political intrigue, bad intel, and even merely bad weather had begun to make the Guild go steadily further into decline. Even Riften was falling from their control. Mercer simply sent all those in charge of these failed operations back in anger, despite the fact that he seemed to know full well that everything that had occurred was no fault of their own. Niravas tried not to overthink the almost guilty expression on his face when news of each failure was brought to him.

After a couple months or so, they finally felt safe enough to enter the city once more, continuing to remind the people of Whiterun that the Guild was very much still kicking. Niravas made sure to keep their hood drawn as much as possible. Anyone could change their clothes and voice, but a face was a difficult thing to disguise. Work, of course, had to continue and they felt safe enough after a time to enter the city while hooded, hoping that the time would blur the memories of anyone who saw them. It certainly worked well with their second encounter with Vilkas, who only sensed that they were familiar without knowing why.

As they made their way back to Whiterun, they quite clearly heard the howling of wolves. It was rather odd really, no matter how many times Niravas entered these plains, they never actually _saw_ a wolf. It didn’t do much for their nerves. Though distant, they were still close enough that Niravas tensed and urged their horse on faster, to which it had no complaints.

Even after being absent for so long, however, the city still seemed to be in great mourning—though this wasn’t very surprising. It wasn’t everyday that a beloved jarl was murdered—and by his own son no less. There was an execution, of course, and there were a few intoxicated patrons of the Drunken Huntsman that relayed the story. Apparently, the execution took place before the funeral proper. The assassin’s death wasn’t much of an affair, as no one really had much of an opinion on them. Many merely took pity on them or sneered, as many knew that he was likely paid quite a bit for a job he was just too inexperienced to undertake.

Jesig’s death, however, incited a wide range of emotions from the people. Most vied for his death with a certain (quite understandable) animosity, though there were a few that believed he should’ve had his birthright returned, or at the very least have been allowed to live long enough to attend his father’s funeral. Those few kept their opinions close to their chest. Indeed, one particular drunken patron had to drink quite a bit for Niravas to coax the admission that he was of this mindset as well.

Speaking of taverns, they spent quite a bit of time there when it could be spared, (mostly at the Drunken Huntsman, as the Bannered Mare was just a tad too crowded for their tastes). Lisrie, the darling girl, took care of a lot of what went on in Dragonsreach anyhow. All Niravas had to do was organize the occasional heist, and make sure that they kept in touch with each beggar in the streets, and detail everything in various coded missives back to Mercer. Really, they focused just as much on theft as they did merely knowing everything that happened in Skyrim.

It _could_ , however, be difficult work on occasion (lending a hand to the whole curse theory), but nothing they couldn’t handle. The Huntsman was a comfortable place to rest and pick up new information, and they occasionally gossiped with some old friends like Jenassa in lieu of gathering intel. There were also so many new faces—each shadier than the last—coming in and out of what was still technically the heart of the province, acting as a buffer for the possibility of recognition.

Balgruuf settled in quite well to his new station, but he rarely ventured outside of his quarters, let alone the keep. His last official address of the people was at the grand event of Maerlaf’s funeral, though recently his visits outside were becoming more numerous. He wasn’t out and about nearly as often as would be healthy, but he was getting there. The city at first offered their condolences, but when empathy turned to sympathy, he began to force himself to go out.

As for Vilkas, he was a difficult man to avoid. They were normally quite careful when it came to their work, risks only growing with confidence. Lately, after being discovered twice (by the same guard, no less), they were more wary than ever. Even while keeping tabs on him and keeping their work as discreet as possible, there were still instances where Vilkas arrived on scene. They never dared to pull what they did on their first meeting, instead fleeing the scene with whatever they were carrying in that moment.

There were even a few more awkward moments, such as when the sun began to dim and they felt it safe to exit the Guild safe-house where they had been storing their spoils. Sky bruising into deep erubescence and hood drawn far over their face, they would mingle and blend with the crowd as they collected in the streets to meander back to their homes. Sometimes they would glimpse Vilkas in the slow paced swarm of people, and even rarer their gazes would meet. He would try to push through the crowd to them, but they would always escape. After the first few incidents of this, he stopped trying, knowing full well that they would speak to him just when they were damned well ready to. They wondered if he knew that moment would likely never come if they had any say in the matter.

They were quite happy with this arrangement: both aware of each other’s presence in the city, but still avoiding actively seeking the other out. It worked out famously well for a time, until Niravas, lounging lazily on the outcropping over the doorway of a random house, watched as a lone figure strolled across the streets. It was Vilkas, navigating each turn without so much as glancing down from where he gazed at the moons. Though it had been nearly a year since their previous encounter, it was still very obvious that he was… different, now. The way he walked was now more fluid, almost bestial in a way that they definitely would have noticed beforehand, and his eyes reflected the light and glinted a frosty silver, making Niravas blink.

They leaned closer, clothing only faintly shuffling, and yet still Vilkas stopped and snapped to attention. He turned, and they saw that it was no illusion from the glinting moonlight. His formerly warm, brown eyes were now a light, steely grey, and they stared up at them at first in fear, then in confusion when they realized the source of the sound. They merely met each other’s gazes in silence, Niravas desperately trying to school their shocked expression, until Vilkas spoke up.

“I almost didn’t hear you.”

“ _Almost_ ,” They said, breathing a laugh.

Vilkas rolled his eyes, “Care to explain why you’re on the roof of that house?”

“Not particularly.”

Goosebumps had risen up on their skin as they took in the fact that he heard a noise so barely audible. Vilkas stared back at them in mere shock, but Niravas was desperately shoving away a feeling of panic, forcing their breathing to steady. The fact that _anyone_ , even if it was someone who they had stopped regarding as a serious threat, could hear their movements was downright terrifying.

“So…” Niravas began, voice ringing with a certain shade of unease, “What sort of shitshow did you get mixed up in this time?”

“Pardon?”

“I know the stories, doll,” they explained, willing their usual confident faꞔade to return, “You don’t grow up in Morrowind and come out _not_ able to recognize the mark of a Daedra.”

The awkwardness then divulged into something a touch more dangerous. At the word _Daedra_ , that brilliant silver flashed gold for just a split second, and Niravas wanted to believe it was their eyes playing tricks on them despite all evidence to the contrary. They were very glad in this moment that they had found this roof to perch on.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll fall?” Vilkas said, blatantly changing the subject.

“This again? No actually, I’m not. This is a rather comfortable place to sit, and it’s—”

“Out of reach of nosy guards?”

“Precisely.”

Well, perhaps he hadn’t changed so much then; the banter flowed easily enough, anyhow. Still, they had no desire to push this. Niravas then rose, and—giving Vilkas the same mock salute from their first meeting—disappeared into the shadows of the rooftops. They spent the better part of the coming weeks trying to forget the encounter.

Instead, they were haunted by the thought of wolves in the wilds that constantly howled out their presence, but never showed themselves.

* * *

Vilkas was left there standing alone in the night, without even being bid a proper goodbye. From what he knew of that thief, however, it really was quite fitting. He took a moment to process all that had occurred, and his brow creased in fervent worry as he wondered just what all this meant. Were they truly able to piece out his recently acquired nature just from a glance? Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past them. Paying attention to such little details in order to discern the much larger truth was well within the job description for them.

He opted to return to Jorrvaskr, cutting his night walk short. Since his joining merely a few days previous (his twentieth birthday, to be precise), he’d found sleep increasingly hard to come by. He’d spoken with Farkas about it first, who had complained of similar symptoms. Skjor relayed the unfortunate news that it was quite expected. He’d since taken to absentmindedly strolling the streets in the night, still marveling at how the moons now _sang_ to him, and couldn’t help but feel it wasn’t coincidence that he’d run into the thief.

He dreaded waking Kodlak up so late at night, dawn already well on its way, but found that he wasn’t the only one who’d given up on a restless sleep. The Harbinger was sitting at his desk, dark circles under his eyes as he shuffled through papers and struggled to read them with bleary eyes. He perked up when Vilkas entered, rapping lightly upon the already open door.

“Vilkas, my lad, what can I do for you?”

“I…” He struggled with what to say for a moment, “I need some advice.”

“Well now, this sounds quite important. Take a seat,” Kodlak said, gesturing to an empty chair across from his desk.

He complied, but settled uneasily. His feet tapped rapidly in consternation.

“Now,” Kodlak began, “What happened that had you seeking me only a few hours off from day?”

Vilkas felt like he had been talking for an age, and if it weren’t for the fact that the sun still had yet to rise (though it was on the cusp), he would have believed it. He described the thief he let get away; that nameless thief who he had encountered thrice now. The first time he failed to bring them in may have been a mistake, and tonight it may have been a near impossibility to get to them while on that roof, but at Dragonsreach? He had countless chances to arrest them, and yet he took none of them. It didn’t matter that he didn’t recognize them until the very end. He should’ve known, and even after he did, they were still well within his grasp.

Kodlak listened intently, frowning at various points in his descriptions, but never saying anything beyond asking for clarification for certain events that he didn’t describe quite clearly. There wasn’t any trouble until he began describing their presence at the keep. They didn’t bother hiding their face then, knowing it would be more suspicious to do so rather than not, but they went to great lengths to create a whole new persona for themselves. They looked _so familiar_ , but it just didn’t click.

Kodlak started, eyes widening, “Vilkas, are you saying—”

“No! Nine, _no_! They didn’t do it. Actually,” He sighed, “They were the one that caught the assassin in the first place. I merely followed along.”

“I see. They didn’t want this assassin interfering with whatever they had going on in the keep. Well, I shouldn’t say that. They were likely robbing the place blind.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. They’re quite good, and I’ve heard the Thieves Guild is quite competitive when it comes to organized crime of any sort.”

Kodlak didn’t even blink when he mentioned they were Guild. “Have you seen them since?”

“Sometimes, in the crowds. I just thought it was my imagination until tonight.”

Kodlak’s eyes narrowed in both suspicion and confusion.

“I saw them tonight, when I went out. Kodlak, they—” He took a breath to calm himself. “They know what we are.”

“What do you mean?” This all was doing little to settle Kodlak’s growing scrutiny over the matter.

“They just took one look at me, and they knew we had something to do with daedra. I’m not sure if that extends to knowing what _precisely_ we are, but…” He said, trailing off.

“This is grave news indeed,” Kodlak affirmed, brows knitted in worry, “I suppose you want to know what to do about this?”

“That would be preferable to not.”

“Just…” He sighed, “Keep an eye on this, and hope they offer the same courtesy you did when you kept your mouth shut for them.”

Vilkas thanked Kodlak for listening to what was turning out to be a much more eventful string of mistakes than he had originally intended, and returned to his own quarters. He could hear Farkas, Aela, and Skjor—awake with the same restlessness as all in Jorrvaskr with their particular affliction—speaking idly upstairs as he passed. He settled down in his bed, now much more comfortable now that he was exhausted enough from the entire encounter.

Fear still pressed heavily in his mind, but eventually he fell asleep just as the sun rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm a couple days late! Unfortunately, school decided to start up the day I was planning to update, and it completely slipped my mind


	5. Prelude V

_13th day of Frostfall, 4E 185_

Niravas always found more comfort in being out and about in the night rather than in broad daylight. Perhaps it was the ease with which one could hide. One could hide oneself, a body, stolen loot, or even a secret— _anything_. The lighter hours let everything out within plain sight, forcing a sort of vulnerability. This is a thought that had persisted from even before they found their lot with more unsavory individuals, something that they felt even when they were a child.

This left them with thinking nothing of leaving the Guild safehouse just as dusk reached its end, and the moons—both nearly full— beginning their nightly ascent. They dragged out some of their spoils over the months, daring for once to put it in a knapsack slug at their side. It was simply too much to stuff in their pockets, and would have made movement far more cumbersome than would be preferred.

They had a few options when it came to fences. First off was Belethor the pawnbroker, but he had made his loyalty to Maven Black-Briar clear. It wasn’t that this was necessarily a bad thing, but as hard times hit the Guild more and more persistently over the years, she had been slowly buying them off. They’d like to have as little to do with her as possible, to say the least. They could also return to Riften and get the bonus chance of informing Mercer about the goings on of Whiterun in person rather than coded missives, but they’d been gone less than a month.

Though luckily, both these options could be easily averted, as one of the three Khajiit caravans present in the province happened to be making camp just outside the city. They were pleasant enough people, and really Niravas quite enjoyed their company. They were, however, quite guarded (justifiably so), and it made trade with them difficult at times. At least it was a group they had traded with many times before, and they were quite happy to accommodate them in their camp and freely share their goods—so long as they had the coin, of course.

They descended the stairs in the little safehouse, strategically pressed up next to the wall, and exited through an entrance hidden behind an outcropping of rocks. Locking it behind them, they made their way to the front of the walls where the main gate lied. They stalked close to the wall, hidden by the shadow of night from any guards that marched atop on their rounds.

“ _Dras'kay, trevan_!” Came a familiar voice from the caravan, “It has been some time.”

Khayla, one of this caravan’s guards, stood to her full height where she sat at the edge of the camp, keeping watch. Her armor clinked softly with each movement. Niravas could see her tail flicking, fur bristling slightly. They must have startled her some, their distinct scent muddled and mixed with others from their time earlier in the Huntsman making it more difficult to determine just who was approaching their caravan.

“Indeed it has, darling,” Niravas greeted, “I’ve some business with Ri’saad. He awake?”

“Always is, when there is a thief in the night.”

Niravas laughed warmly, “But this thief’s here to bring bounty, not take it.”

“That is a matter of opinion,” said Atahbah, smiling lazily where she sat as they entered the camp proper, “You are quite the swindler.”

Niravas merely shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. It was a necessity in their line of business, as Atahbah herself well knew. It’s difficult to make money when you can’t make a shitty deal seem tiers above its actuality. Of course, it’s even more difficult when you’re the one getting said shitty deal. They passed the last tent obscuring their view of Ri’saad, leader of the caravan and many others, who sat cross-legged on a circular, tweed mat, his eyes twinkling with mirth at the exchange.

“Ah, Niravas,” He said, inclining his head as means of hello, “What trinkets and baubles do you bring to me this day?”

“The usual,” They shrugged, “Statuettes, jewelry, rare books. Y’know, the works.”

“How long have you been amassing this? It is quite the haul.”

“Eh, I don’t so much trust the fence in town anymore, and going way back to Riften seems like too much trouble. Mercer’s a thunderstorm lately.”

“I can imagine. Your Guild has not been doing too well in recent years. Perhaps there is more to this curse rumor I have so heard?”

“I sure hope not, old friend.”

They settled into a comfortable rhythm of back-and-forth, haggling and bickering each item’s worth. Niravas bought only a few things, mostly restocking on lockpicks broken over the months. Atahbah closely watched the exchange, intending one day herself to become a trader. She was quite young and had much to learn, but she was shrewd, cynical, and above all had a rather charming disposition. She would go far in the field.

After concluding selling their haul, Niravas sat for awhile and chatted with Khayla and Atahbah. They kept their voices hushed, keeping in mind Ma'randru-jo, who slept not far away in his tent. It didn’t take long for Khayla to reach into the pockets of her armor to fish out a small steel flask. They sat for a couple of hours, swapping stories and drink. They admittedly didn’t drink much, but just enough that they were warm and content.

Their conversation was cut short, however, as lupine howls echoed out into the night.

“There they are again,” Khayla said, “Unnatural things.”

“What d’you mean? The wolves?” Niravas inquired, tensing as the two women stared intently into the dark, tips of their tails flicking like a warning.

“No,” Atahbah supplied, “Foolish men who have sold their souls off to the _Hirsiniit_.”

Niravas didn’t recognize that word, little Ta’agra though they knew, but what they were able to piece out of it was a particular name quite similar.

“Hircine? You think those are lycans out there?”

“Think? I know,” Insisted Khayla, “I have seen them when I am on watch. Do you not think it strange that not a single wolf is ever seen in these parts?”

Niravas didn’t answer, merely gazed out onto plains they could barely see, even with the full moonlight. They gripped the stone beneath them where they sat, starting at every shadow that moved. Khayla and Atahbah weren’t much better, but likely for quite different reasons. Their senses were much sharper than theirs, and they could likely pinpoint precisely where the supposed werewolves were. Niravas, on the other hand, was jumpy for quite another reason.

“Alright, that’s enough for me,” Niravas announced, getting to their feet, “I’m heading back into the city. G’night.”

“ _Kotu'sekil jer iit iso ja'fith khaja, trevan_ ,” said Khayla.

Atahbah nodded in affirmation, but didn’t turn her head fully their way, her ears as far forward as they would go.

“And you as well,” Niravas said, recognizing the Ta’agra form of the Khajiiti saying, before making their way back to the entrance to their safehouse.

All they could think of was Vilkas, who they occasionally still chanced upon (but scarcely spoke to). Whether it be in the streets, in the tavern, or even just outside the city, there were always those silver eyes staring back at them each time they met. It would be unnerving if the few times they shared words made it obvious he was still the same person. But was he still the same now, or had his base, cursed instinct twisted him into one of Hircine’s Dogs in this moment? Two years had passed since he had given his soul up to Oblivion, but Niravas doubted he even realized. They scarcely had, until now.

This made them feel a bleak sort of eeriness, an unnerving sensation that caused their skin to prickle. It hadn’t escaped their notice that a choice few others in his order also shared this attribute. They knew—had since they came to this city—but before just hadn’t cared, hadn’t grasped the severity of such a thing. Contrary to how they had made it seem when they had initially pointed it out, they didn’t know shit about lycanthropy, only the rumors and myths. They all had something monstrous to say, and Niravas found themself fearing, but for what they couldn’t say.

They forced themself to stop caring once more, to ignore this recent epiphany, and strode back into the town as the howls of multiple wolves echoed out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning! I'm not sure if my next update will be on time. Unfortunately the eye of the hurricane is going right over my house so?? Our back up place to stay if it's so damaged that it's unlivable is at my aunt's house. Unfortunately they have no wifi...
> 
> Also, here's some translations of the [Ta'agra](http://www.taagra.com)  
> used:  
> "Dras'kay, trevan" - "Hello, friend"  
> "Hirsiniit" - "Hunter (Hircine)"  
> "Kotu'sekil jer iit iso ja'fith khaja, trevan" - "May you walk on warm sands, friend"


	6. Prelude VI

_1st day of Morning Star, 4E 188_

Rarely was Whiterun in such a state of revelry. Nothing too extravagant had been dared in years, not since the travesty that was the previous jarl’s seventy-fifth birthday. Only now did the people feel safe enough to celebrate to such a degree. In this way this was much more than just the New Life Festival, that typically wrought new beginnings. It now meant that they didn’t have to be afraid of old memories, tentatively stepping back out despite the fact that they now paint the history books with more blood than before.

Farkas and Aela had dragged him out to the marketplace where the festivities were most vibrant. The sun was quickly fading, and that compounded with the mid-winter chill made the rapidly increasing cold more biting than usual. This did little to discourage the celebrations, however, as most were either drunk or well on their way to it. Vilkas couldn’t say he was much different in this regard. The only ones who weren’t were the children who ran around the square playing tag. Worried parents scolded them as they rushed past, warning against slipping on the thin sheets of ice that liked to form in various places each winter.

For once, everyone was happy, even Balgruuf who had long since shut himself up in Dragonsreach. It was evident Hrongar had goaded him out, but his smile—however small and reserved—was unmistakable. The old melancholy still sunk deep into his eyes, but there was still hope in that small twitch of lips. Hrongar made a point of not leaving his brother’s side. That is, until the children grasped at his hands, leading him away as they demanded a story, or two, or twelve.

That left Balgruuf sitting on the sidelines, staring into his tankard and wondering whether or not he should down it all in one go. That was when Farkas approached him. Vilkas was never much of a people person, never knowing what to say. Farkas, however, was another matter entirely; he practically radiated kindness. There was just a certain warmth to his eyes that eased people, and made Balgruuf decide only to take a few sips from his drink every now and again.

Vilkas hung back from most of the excitement, mostly chatting with Aela. The two of them had always been more solitary than the others, and would rather do without the commotion. Honestly, Vilkas didn’t know how Farkas could stand it. Since their inoculation, their senses had been much sharper, and in a setting like this, painfully so. They both had found a rather comfortable place to sit, though, on a couple of barrels at the edge of the square. They were still participating (somewhat) in the party, but were outside of it enough that it wasn’t stifling. He was rather glad for it, in hindsight.

There was next to no chance that he would’ve been able to notice the thief, otherwise.

His breath hitched when he recognized the figure cloaked in dark leathers that arrived just after the sun had completely fallen. Torches and lanterns had been set up, but they were still easily able to slip into the shadows. Vilkas was tempted to merely let it lie, but when they began to mingle with the people, Vilkas realized they weren’t just there for conversation and drink.

Weaving in and out of the crowd, Vilkas watched as their hands flitted about in what an unknowing onlooker would label as drunkenly. He, completely aware of the reality of the situation, labeled it for what it was: skilled and practiced pickpocketing. As the thief wandered off, up the stairs to the Gildergreen, Vilkas followed. He made a half-assed excuse to Aela that he was tired, to which they both knew was a blatant lie. Sleep would likely never come easily to them ever again.

The thief never made a glance to him as he tailed along, and he honestly wasn’t entirely sure that they were aware of his presence. They could be ignoring him with purpose, for all he knew. Various people sat at the foot of the tree, listening intently to the newest head priestess of the temple of Kynareth, Danica Pure-Spring. She had long been an apprentice, and it showed in her ascension to the head of the temple. Her speech was passionate in a way only someone truly devoted to their faith could be.

It was quite the picture, bright yellow robes dulled in the gentle moonlight as she preached to her flock, the occasional rose-pink blossom filtering down from above. The sight was enough to make the thief themself pause. By the time Vilkas entered the square, they were already leaning back comfortably against one of the many large wooden beams that held up the structure built around the sacred tree. They had seemingly been paying close attention to the sermon, but when he attempted to grasp at their hood and make half-hearted accusations of theft, they easily darted just out of reach.

“ _Almost_ , baby doll,” They said with a lazy expression and a mouth full of mirth.

“Taking advantage of the inebriated?” Vilkas questioned, a small grin coming to him unbidden at the mention of that day years ago.

The laughter fell easily from their already smiling lips, “You talk like I’m above that.”

“You’re not going to run?” Vilkas questioned, genuinely perturbed that they didn’t even seem to consider the possibility of capture.

“Will you chase me down and arrest me if I do?” They taunted.

“I could arrest you right now. In fact, I could call over the guards,” Vilkas pointed out, “It may be a celebration, but there are as many on duty as any other day.”

The thief leaned in close, “And what’s stopping you?”

“The possibility for something in return.”

“What could you want from me? You don’t seem the type to ask for a cut,” They sneered, “Not that I’d humor that particular demand.”

“Nothing much,” He replied, shrugging, “Just your name.”

They scoffed, “My name?”

“Aye, like I said: nothing much.”

“I never did tell you after that mess at the keep, did I?”

“You say that as though that wasn’t your intention.”

They stared him down, scrutinizing in their gaze as they seemed to analyze every movement, every change of expression. Neither said a word, waiting for the other to falter as they blatantly ignored the droning prayers in the background. Vilkas had always been stubborn, so it didn’t come as a surprise when the thief buckled first. It very nearly worried him that they didn’t seem all too put off by that. They rolled their eyes as they reached up to grasp at his shoulder, beckoning him down.

Leaning forward, Vilkas could feel their smirk against his ear, whispering, “ _Niravas_.”

They then quite suddenly forced him back as they sidestepped and leapt up with a certain grace upon the railing of the small bridge that went over the stream that surrounded the Temple of Kynareth. He made no move to stop them as they sauntered off into the darkness. The next breeze that blew through felt colder, and he couldn’t tell if he was imagining it or not.

* * *

Niravas retired to the Drunken Huntsman shortly after their encounter with Vilkas. They had only been out for a few hours by that point, but they begrudgingly filled their pockets before leaving the streets for the night. Normally they revelled in the act of thievery, but that meeting (despite the fact that Niravas had actively seeked Vilkas out), had given the night a sense of finality. It was as if there was nothing left to be done.

Upon entering the small establishment, they spotted a familiar face, contentedly drinking alone in her usual chair. Jenassa had been a close companion of Niravas’ for longer than most. So long, in fact, that they had left Morrowind together, heading out for Skyrim. There was over a century of history between them—and not all of it good—but it brought them closer in the long run. Both would be dead a dozen times over were it not for the other. It was a shame they never really had the chance to speak too often.

“Jen!” Niravas greeted, “I see you’re in one piece. How’s the job?”

“A few bandits are dead, if that’s what you’re asking,” She replied sourly.

They gave her a knowing look, “A few?”

“Most of them ran! If they even _were_ proper bandits, they were shit ones.”

“Well, at least you gotta kill _some_ of them,” Niravas shrugged.

This drew out her smile, “Thank the Ancestors for small mercies. Speaking of disappointments, Nira, you seem rather miffed.”

And that caused their smile to drop, “I’ve gotten myself into a complicated situation, is all, Jen.”

“This have anything to do with that Companion fellow?”

“It might.”

They’d had lengthy conversations about Vilkas in the past. Unfortunately, Niravas had never been too keen to follow her advice, especially when it came to their personal life. She still hadn’t quite forgiven them for joining the Thieves Guild over a decade prior, but those were extenuating circumstances, they supposed. Still, they continued to go against almost all her advice regarding Vilkas and the Companions. Jenassa, on the other hand, continued to lend her advice despite knowing full well it wouldn’t be heeded.

“Sounds like you’re getting too close. I’d recommend distancing yourself.”

“All I do is distance myself. I haven’t even been in Whiterun in months! Y’know, s'been nearly five years and I’ve only just now given him my name?”

“Yet you still keep coming back.”

Niravas may have given her a glare, but they really had to give her that. They could’ve requested a transfer to one of the other holds years ago. Especially after the fiasco at Dragonsreach, it would’ve been fully within their rights. Still though, they came back again and again. No matter how long they stayed away, they always returned and seeked Vilkas out rather than simply doing their job and leaving like any sane person. It was the same principle that kept their own friendship alive. They never really saw Jenassa often, but they still considered each other close.

“Just… Shut up, Jen,” they huffed.

Her eyes lit up in mirth, “Oh, is this going into the realm of the romantic? Well damn, I didn’t realize it was so serious.”

“Gods, no! I barely know the man!”

“I know, dear, I know. Just teasing, but whatever’s the case, you think of him as someone important in your life.”

“How important d'you think he is to me?”

“At the very least, a friend.”

At that, Niravas decided they were quite done with this topic. “Yeah? Well, how about you be a good friend and buy us a round.”

“So long as you buy the next,” She countered.

Niravas spent the rest of their night deep in their cups with Jenassa. Normally such drinking in such excess wasn’t something they’d indulge in as it blurred their senses to an uncomfortable degree (a dangerous thing for one in their line of work), but they decided to Oblivion with it. It was a holiday, wasn’t it? This damned curse was making their job more and more difficult with each passing week, and with this whole deal with Vilkas, they deserve a break. The New Life Festival (even if they weren’t actively involved in the celebrations) was the perfect time to take the opportunity.

They returned to their safehouse pleasantly drunk, all thoughts of Vilkas being worth a damn to them snuffed away for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I still have a house! And also this update is actually going out on time


	7. Prelude VII

_2nd day of Midyear, 4E 190_

A gust of wind picked up that was borderline warm, blowing the morning chill from Vilkas’ bones. Songbirds flitted softly through the bows of the trees, and the new shoots of soft grass peeked up from the littering of fallen pine cones and needles. The sun was just beginning to reach its zenith, obscured by soft light clouds that only promised rain perhaps in a few days. And it _would_ be rain that fell. Skyrim had just reached her summer season, and while brief, the land was sure to flourish in the scant weeks of reprieve it had.

Farkas was over on the other end of the caravan, the two of them keeping watch on all sides. So far, they had been left mostly alone. The wolves and bears and whatever else lurking off the path that were likely to have attacked by now knew better than to fight a pair of lycans, and their route took them around the more well-known bandit strongholds. In fact, that was the main reason they had gone through the woods rather than taking the frequently trodden paths. The only downside was that the horses and carts had to be treated particularly, but in the rocky, frozen land of Skyrim, what else was new?

The people who owned the caravan were nice enough, a young couple: one Breton, one Nibenean. The Nibenean’s mother was also present, as well as the couple’s adopted Bosmeri child. A charming little family, if a bit unconventional by usual standards. Being from Cyrodiil, they were taking advantage of the break in normally frigid weather to branch out into other places in Tamriel. They even spoke of visiting Morrowind, or even High Rock during the next summer. The Breton, Cayiele, was particularly excited about the prospect of visiting her homelands.

Farkas was, as he was with most people, particularly talkative. Vilkas, on the other hand, kept mostly to himself. He simply enjoyed the walk, and was content to merely listen to the conversation around him without joining in. Cayiele took turns driving the caravan via a pair of horses with her wife, Galia every few hours. The grandmother, Aminta, sat in the back with the child, Thamir to keep a close eye on both him and the goods. They ended up being just slightly earlier than originally planned, having been traveling just shy of a week.

“Thank you again, Companions, for escorting us. I almost feel bad! We didn’t encounter any trouble,” Cayiele remarked as they unsaddled their horses and unpacked their goods before entering the city.

Farkas gave an amicable grin, “No trouble at all! It’s better than not being here and be needed.”

“And I’d imagine the trouble was worth it anyhow,” Galia pointed out, “Considering you got paid.”

Vilkas had to snort at that, especially when Cayiele swatted at her wife and said in a chastising tone, “ _Galia!_ ”

They both and wished the little family safe travels as they parted ways, then went off to the nearest tavern, the Bee and Barb. Whoever decided that bars and inns should be put in the same building deserved a blessing by the gods that rivaled that of ancient folk heroes. It wasn’t necessarily the finest establishment he’d been in, but this was Riften: a city built by thieves for thieves. At that thought, Vilkas fought the urge to clutch his pack closer.

After realizing how late it was, however, all he really cared about was that it was warm against the muggy, outdoor cold that was quickly setting in as darkness fell. Oh, and the mead, of course; that went without saying. Blackbriar Mead may be expensive, but it was one of the best brands in the province. They paid for a room, and Vilkas retreated to one of the tables to drink in peace, while Farkas stayed up at the bar to make conversation.

The only real issue with his choice of seat was the fact that he felt eyes on him everywhere, but anytime he looked up, he either didn’t see anyone looking their way, as they were out of sight entirely or they had already averted their gaze. _Gazes_ , rather; he was quite sure it was more than one person. There were a number of shady individuals here, more than there were normal-seeming citizens. He wasn’t quite as worried as he perhaps should have been, and it took him time to realize why.

Niravas (as they had _finally_ revealed their name to him the last time they spoke), had become such a constant sight in the periphery of everything major happening in Whiterun that he was just used to the constant but cautious stares of a thief. In fact, now that he thought about it, he rarely spoke to Niravas more than once a year. He could actually count on his hands the amount of times they had actually spoken. How had they made such an impact on his life? Did they truly leave that much of an impression?

After a few minutes of scanning the room, he finally found one of the people watching him: a hooded figure who held themself in a way that only a trained and practiced thief could. Seemed to be an abundance of those here. They completely went against his expectations, however, when they approached upon noticing his own staring. They pulled out the chair across from him and, pulling down her hood, promptly sat down without a word.

She was a Nord with classically beautiful features and a sly smile, like she knew everything in the world. Her eyes were different from the typical Nordic features, a deep, brilliant blue rather than the more common greys or browns. It was less the color that caught his attention, though, and more the way those striking eyes she gave him the most curious of looks. He cleared his throat in the hopes that she would either say something or leave.

“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” She said, settling on the latter.

“I… Excuse me?” He was completely at a loss for how to react.

She continued on as if he hadn’t said anything, “I mean, I _suppose_ you’re kind of their type, but…”

Ah, so that’s what this was about, “‘Them’? You mean Niravas?”

She raised a brow, attempting to hide her surprise,“They told you their name? Dumbass.”

“I gather you work with them, then.”

She laughed softly, “What gave it away?”

“Wearing hoods indoors, and watching my brother and I intently since our arrival?” He offered.

“Touché.” She stopped to regard him some more for a moment, “You know what? I take it back.”

He raised a brow in response.

“I definitely see it now,” she supplied with a grin.

And just like that, without so much as a goodbye, she got up and left, and not just the table. She exited the establishment through the main entrance—something that surprised him for some reason. The only proof that she was ever there at all was the seat left in a slightly different position from before. He downed the rest of the drink he had been nursing, and made his way back up to the main portion of the bar.

He found Farkas was avidly chatting with Talen-Jei, one of the proprietors of the tavern. He was describing in great detail some new drinks and cocktails he was working on, and though Farkas didn’t follow most of what he said, the Argonian seemed just happy that someone was content to listen to him ramble. Farkas turned to him worriedly as he approached.

“Vil? Who was that?”

“A friend of a friend… I think.”

“Likely not,” Talen-Jei supplied, “Or you’re consorting with the wrong people.”

“Who was that?” Vilkas asked, almost tentatively.

“That,” Keerava said with a scowl, “Was Sapphire. Rat’s in here everyday. Whatever you said to get her to leave, I’ve gotta say I’m impressed.”

“You can’t just kick her out?” Farkas asked.

“No, Guild’d have our hides if we dared. I don’t know why they bother coming in here anyhow. ‘S not like they don’t have their own tavern.”

“Their own tavern?” Vilkas didn’t even bother asking for clarification when she said ‘Guild’.

“Aye, somewhere in the Ratway—the sewers, that is,” She explained upon remembering they weren’t locals.

The conversation then divulged from cocktails to the Guild’s dwindling reign over Riften. They were obviously losing prominence, but refused to relinquish their hold on the city. It was a reality that only served to harm Riften in the long run. Vilkas’ attention suddenly shifted when he took note of a particular figure near the main door. They started when he saw them, however, and exited the establishment. Vilkas wordlessly placed his empty tankard on the counter where Keerava took it. She held it up as if to ask if he wanted more, but he just shook his head and she placed it with the other dirtied dishes.

It was late. Maybe it would be better if he just went to sleep.

\---

 _Shit_. That was all they really had to say on the matter. There were few words more concise or fitting for the situation, really. Dealing with Vilkas in Whiterun? Sure, fine. Niravas could handle that easily, but he had no business being anywhere _near_ Riften. Thank the ancestors he had mostly stayed in the Bee and Barb, and with the time, they really doubted he would be out and about. Walking around a city like this in the dead of night was just asking to be mugged. Still, they wouldn’t put it past him; the man had made some pretty brash decisions in the past.

Niravas was sitting in the Ragged Flagon clutching close an empty tankard. They wanted their wits about them, and so refused whenever Vekel came over to take or refill it. Just holding the damned thing made them feel just slightly more grounded. They were wrenched from their nerve-ridden thoughts when Sapphire strode into the cistern and plopped herself down on the barstool next to them.

“Hey, I found your man,” She informed.

“That’s well and good, but why is he here?”

“He’s a mercenary,” She shrugged, “He was paid to escort a caravan.”

They were about to inquire further, but, “Mine?”

“Aye, yours,” She teased, “He seems to think it at least.”

“Sapphire, that’s fucking absurd.”

“Is it? I mention you, and he gives me this _look_. He at the very least thinks highly of you, and definitely isn’t here out of malicious intent. I swear, though, what in Oblivion is with his eyes?”

She then began to go on about various oddities she found, but Niravas stopped listening. They already knew each and every little difference brought about by the curse; she wouldn’t be telling them anything new. Niravas muttered a string of curses in Dunmeris.

“I hate to say it, but Jen’s right.”

“Your Morrowind friend?” Sapphire laughed, “From what I’ve heard, she’s right about a lot of things.”

“I got too close,” They answered as they rose and quickly made their way out of the cistern.

A light sprinkling of rain had begun, something not uncommon in Riften. It’s proximity to the frozen tundra of northern Skyrim and the volcanically active Morrowind made it a bit of a hotspot for storms. Niravas merely raised their hood and continued onto the Bee and Barb. The tavern was busy as ever, it being the only one in the city and also willing to sell alcohol even into the dead of night. Niravas entered to see the two brothers at the bar chatting idly with Talen-Jei and Keerava. Rather, Farkas was; Vilkas seemed raddled by something. Ancestors, what had Sapphire done?

They made a move to approach, but stopped. There were have a thousand things that could go wrong here. What if Sapphire was just fucking with them, and Vilkas really was here for them? They stood in the corner, hood pulled far over their eyes, but they knew it wouldn't do much good. Vilkas saw them in their Guild attire often enough that he would be able to recognize them despite it—and they were right.

Vilkas turned his head, and those damning, bright, silver eyes focused on their shrouded figure. They merely stared back for a moment, frozen. Whether in fear or anticipation, they couldn’t quite say. They only found their ability to move once more when the barstool Vilkas sat upon made a harsh noise upon the hardwood floor.

Niravas was gone from the tavern and back into the rain before Vilkas even had a chance to get up from his seat.


	8. Prelude VIII

_10th day of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 194_

Vilkas entered through the main gates of Whiterun with little issue, as the guards long knew his face. He was exhausted, though not from the contract itself. Travel always took its toll, carrying with it a sense of heady weariness no matter what. As he passed through the market to get up to the Wind District, he noted the stall-keepers packing up as the early, winter night crept in.

He frowned as he briefly overheard them grumbling about a thief that made people so wary that they only left their homes to buy the essentials. Some of the richer people had even been paying others to do their shopping for them. Odd, Vilkas had assumed this would have been resolved while he was away, but it seemed to have only gotten much worse.

He made his way up to Jorrvaskr and opened one of the massive double-doors, and the warm, homey smell of a freshly cooked meal overwhelmed his senses. Immediately, it eased the tension he could feel growing painfully in his shoulders and the tiredness hit him full force. He was about to go and sit down at the table with some whelps that were talking animatedly among themselves, to eat and drink until it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. Tilma, however, approached instead.

“Vilkas, dear,” She said apologetically, obviously noticing the beeline he was making to the banquet table, “I’m afraid the Harbinger needs to see you first.”

He gave her a pained look and inwardly groaned, but made his way down to the living quarters anyhow. Kodlak likely wanted him to aid in tracking down this thief, but if he was being honest, he wasn’t sure he was willing (even after a meal and long night's rest). The thought of it being Niravas worried him a variably amount. It was certainly _possible_ that it could be them, and yet something seemed decidedly off. In the decade or so that they had been active in the city, they had done nothing of this scale. It _couldn’t_ be them, and yet...

“—weeks of this. Weeks! It’s like that time with those carvings, only worse. This thief leaves behind absolutely nothing!”

Vilkas entered the Harbinger’s quarters to see Kodlak and Skjor in heated discussion over the recent burglaries that were occurring throughout Whiterun. They had begun three weeks ago—a few days or so before he left on contract—and the city was in uproar. Guard patrols had been doubled (or in some cases tripled when the numbers could be spared), and people had been glued to their homes as they warily defended their belongings.

Kodlak rose to attention, “Ah, Vilkas my lad, come and sit. There are a few things we need to discuss.”

“Is this about that thief I’ve heard tell of?”

“Aye, exactly.” He then added almost to himself, “This city has always had a problem with thieves, but it hasn’t been this bad in… Well, honestly I can't remember. It's rare that someone is bold enough to forcefully wrest someone from their belongings in the city.”

“Nine,” Vilkas remarked, “This sounds more like a highwayman than a thief.”

“Athis and Aela are down in the city trying to mitigate the issue,” Skjor supplied, “Farkas went out on his own contract shortly after you, and isn’t due for another day or two. When he returns, he will also lend aid.”

“I’ll see what I can do in the meantime,” He said before promptly leaving.

Kodlak gave him a knowing look before Vilkas left the room, obviously remembering his confession from years ago and echoing his concerns.

When he returned to the mead hall proper, he barely had time to finally sit and eat before Aela slammed open the heavy oak doors. Athis followed behind with a surly expression. They were obviously pissed (though Aela invariably more so), and the whelps shifted in their seats as they entered. Vilkas made his way over to them, and they sat over on one of the side benches rather than at the table itself. Tilma brought over a tray of food and a drink for each of them, coupled with a look that said _you have to eat_. They took the tray.

“So…” Vilkas began awkwardly, “No luck?”

Aela glared, and if Vilkas wasn’t so used to it, he would’ve been quaking in his boots like the whelps. he was glad though, in a way. The years had twisted into an admitted fondness for Niravas, and the thought of them getting caught actually made him feel a twinge of remorse.

“Nearly,” Athis answered in her stead, “I was on the other side of town questioning witnesses when she found them.”

“But they got away? What happened?” Vilkas asked, genuinely confused. Aela never let prey escape.

Aela cut Athis off before he could answer, suddenly bursting out, “They were trying to mug a little beggar girl, and I couldn’t do _shit_.”

Her eyes flashed gold and she growled softly. She then quickly downed the rest of her drink, shoved a pastry in her mouth. She turned on a heel, drew her bow, and notched and arrow as she stomped outside. Athis seemed startled by her outburst, but made no move to stop her. Vilkas ignored her however, as he was suddenly filled with at least half the rage that radiated from Aela.

“A child?” He murmured, almost tentatively.

“Aye,” Athis confirmed, “From what I can gather, the thief took the few drakes she had, threw a smoke bomb and ran. Aela was choking on the ground in front of the crying girl when I found her.”

That confirms it, then. Who else would know how debilitating smoke and incense could be but them? Since showing up, Niravas was one of the only thieves in the city. Even if it wasn't them personally, they had to be connected somehow. At this point, it couldn't be coincidence. Vilkas stormed out with every ounce of Aela’s fury—exhaustion be damned—and stalked off into the night.

The Drunken Huntsman was one of the few establishments open that night, which was surprising. Even the Bannered Mare was closed for the most part, only continuing to house those that had rented rooms during daylight hours. The few patrons present in the dingy tavern that braved the darkened streets whipped their heads around at his forceful entrance. He ignored them, scanning the room until he happened upon a pair of Dunmer in the back, one of which was exactly who he sought.

“A child, Niravas? Is that what this has come to?” Vilkas demanded upon approach.

“Oi, you better step right the fuck back, n’wah!” The unfamiliar Dunmer woman said, drawing her blade.

Niravas stood and stepped between them, “Alright, alright, can we all just settle down? Vilkas, sit, order a drink, relax,” They said in their characteristic, nonchalant manner, “You look like you could use it, and after all this unpleasantness, couldn't we all?”

“Nira, you know this man?” The other Dunmer asked, “And what's this about a child?”

“Jen, this is Vilkas. Doll, this is Jenassa,” Niravas quickly blurted out.

“Charmed,” Jenassa said with vitriol.

Vilkas scowled, “Likewise.”

“Anyhow,” Niravas continued, once more finding their seat, “Now that introductions are out of the way, I'd take a guess that you're referring to today's robbery.”

“Aye, I am. Are your people out of their _fucking minds_?”

“Ancestors, no!” They said, having the gall to be outraged, “You think we're behind this? Whoever it is is a fucking dolt, stealing with absolutely no thought in it!”

Caught off guard, he gave them an incredulous look, “Does the Guild put thought into their thievery?”

Jenassa, who had mostly kept her mouth shut and her gaze steely since his arrival, barked out in laughter.

“Of course we do,” Niravas stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Otherwise’d be bad for business”

“I… Excuse me?”

“Aye, you heard me. See, the thing with profit-based economies is that they tend to stagnate. Then all you have is the insanely rich and the insanely poor. Groups like us just keep everything in tandem.”

He raised a brow, “As well as turning a nice profit for yourselves.”

They shrugged, “No one wants to do a service for free, doll.”

He snorted at that, and Jenassa sneared. “Alright, I'm out of here.” She stood, “You two obviously need… privacy.”

Niravas bristled, “What’s that supposed to—And she's gone, nevermind.”

It pissed Vilkas off that they could do this so flippantly. So long as they kept a level head and their mouth running, he never failed to fall into this by now familiar back-and-forth. He was supposed to be furious, but here he was getting chummy enough that their other friend felt the need to leave. In fact, they were sitting rather close. He wondered how much of it was on purpose and how much was Niravas’ charming disposition.

“She one of yours?” Vilkas asked, initial anger mostly deflated.

“No, a merc. I was trying to see if she could help me out with this little conundrum. Actually,” They said, perking up, “I'm glad you're here. Jen and I work outside the law, but you have advantages we don't.”

“Do I now? You realize I'm technically a mercenary, too?”

“Aye, but a _legal_ one,” They pointed out, “You've an in with the guards, and the people trust you.”

“So, you have a plan, but need the city’s help to pull it off?”

“Now you're getting it! Come back later and we'll talk, aye?”

“Why can't you just tell me now?”

“Listen doll, don't take this the wrong way, but you look ready to drop. I'll talk logistics when I think you won't pass out on me.

“You don't have a plan yet, do you.”

“Just go take a fucking nap, and you'll find out. I’ll meet you at the scene of the mugging shortly after noon. You know, the one your friends were involved with?”

“How do you even know where that is?”

“I’ve eyes and ears everywhere, doll.”

“Well, that isn’t disconcerting at all. If that’s the case, then how haven’t you caught this sick fuck yet?”

“Shut up.”

Vilkas snorted and rolled his eyes, but let it drop. They had bigger problems at the moment. Namely, the fact that there was a violent criminal who somehow had been evading capture for the past few weeks. At the moment, however, he was mostly itching to get back to Jorrvaskr. He wouldn't say it aloud, but exhaustion was weighing down his limbs, and he couldn’t focus on much that wasn’t sleep. His thoughts were all slurring together.

He begrudgingly exited the tavern, and made his way back up to the Wind District. By the time he entered the mead hall once more, most of the whelps from before had either passed out right there on the table or had made it back to their quarters. He faintly heard Aela speaking with Kodlak as he returned to his rooms.

Somehow, even after all that had transpired today, Vilkas was restless as he retired to his bed. The weariness that had previously gnawed at his bones still held him down, but his mind was afire with possibilities. Possibilities such as the identity of this rogue thief, their intentions, and any conceivable outcome to this mess.

It took him what felt like hours to finally sleep as he lay there, unmoving as his body felt like lead.

_11th day of Sun’s Dawn, 4E 194_

Niravas waited until noon to rise, begrudgingly exiting their little safehouse in broad daylight. They had turned in shortly after Vilkas left in order to get up so early, hours off from their usual dusk. Jenassa was not happy to say the least. A stranger just barges in demanding all of Niravas’ attention, and they just gave it. Ancestors, they would be buying her rounds for weeks, wouldn’t they?

They made their way over to the alleyway where that poor beggar child had been robbed, clouds hanging low in the sky. It would snow soon; they had to hurry or what little evidence remained would be gone. They had analyzed report after report, but the culprit had no pattern, and had become increasingly impossible to catch. Lately, they had been feeling more and more like a bounty hunter or a detective charged with going after a mark than a thief.

Along the way, they noticed Vilkas and one of the other Companions in the crowd. She was a redhaired Nord with a bow slung across her back who they recognized. Her name was… Aela, right? Vilkas seemed to be consulting her for the exact location of the scene. Ah, she must have been one of the Companions sighted there. Niravas grinned and increased their pace to catch up with them.

“Just south of Warmaiden’s, yeah?”

Aela whirled around, and if it weren’t for their experience and training, Niravas likely would’ve gotten a dagger to the eye. They dodged easily, and held their hands up casually as if to denote they meant no harm. Vilkas, who initially shared her alarm, analyzed the situation quickly and stepped between them.

“Sheath your weapon, Aela,” He said with a hint of irritation, “This is Niravas. They can help us.”

“You failed to mention they had a fucking deathwish!” She then narrowed her eyes, “Wait, I _know_ you. Vilkas, who the fuck—”

Vilkas gave her a look that said _we’ll discuss this later_ , and she reluctantly dropped it. Niravas held back laughter at that, even after Vilkas gave them a deadpan expression.

“So, do you actually have a plan this time?”

“I think I might,” They gave him their serpentine smile. “Say, how keen _is_ your sense of smell?”

He blinked, “I… Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter?”

“You little shit.” Aela jumped forwards, dagger once more in hand. “You _know_.”

Niravas stepped closer to Vilkas’ side, “S'not hard to figure out if you know what you’re looking for, but you’re probably worried if I’ll tell or not. I’ve known for over a decade now, and it does me no good to go squealing now.”

She was about to retort, but Vilkas gave her the same look once more, and she relented.

“Fine,” She huffed, “But there’s absolutely no way we’d be able to track a single person down in a city full of scores of others by _scent_. It’d be too muddled.”

“Then don’t follow their scent; follow their weapon,” They shrugged, “I’ve heard tell that this utter fucking buffoon has been using smoke bombs of all things for quick getaways. That shit’s gotta be pungent.”

The two Companions regarded them for a moment, and gave each other a look.

“You know, what?” Vilkas said, “That actually might work.”

Returning to the original scene of the mugging, the scent was by now faint and mixed in with that of the various guards that had investigated the scene. Luckily, however, Aela had honed her lupine abilities to much more of an edge than Vilkas had ever bothered. It was eerie, far more than encountering Vilkas after his transformation ever had been. She urged them to hurry, as time was of the essence. There was no telling when the snow would fall.

The trail was very weak, halting and sporadic, and barely a trail at all. It helped that they had two noses, and that Niravas stayed back while they worked as to not taint the scent anymore than it already has been. There was little that could be done, however. They traced it throughout the Plains District, winding through alleys and lost at main roads. They found dustings of it on houses that had recently reported break-ins, but little else. All in all, it would’ve been a bust had it not been for where the trail happened to dump them.

“Well, that was fucking degrading and got us absolutely nowhere,” Aela huffs, “The scent it strongest here, but it just stops.”

“Not quite. Look where we are,” Niravas said, gesturing towards the store.

“Arcadia’s,” Vilkas said, “Of _course_.”

“How does this help us?” Aela asked, “Great, we know where the smoke supplies came from, but we still don’t know who made it.”

Niravas simply strode into the store without another word. Inside was warm, homey, and smelled strongly of various herbs and materials. If it was so strong to them, Niravas wondered just how it was affecting the Companions. They could see the duo visibly attempting to hide a grimace that the Colovian woman behind the counter either didn’t notice or didn’t comment on.

“Hello, hello!” Arcadia greeted, happy to finally have some customers after all that’s happened, “Come on in, and browse to your heart’s content.”

“Actually, Miss Arcadia,” Vilkas said, “We need to ask some questions.”

Her expression deflated as she realized they weren’t here to trade, “Oh, Nine, what’s happened now? Does this have to do with that thief?”

“It does,” He confirmed, “Say, has anyone come in here to buy anything out of the ordinary?”

“Hm…” She paused in thought. “Not rea— Oh, actually I’ve had to order some odd ingredients from Riften lately. Cyrodilic Spadetail bones.”

“A fish?” Aela asked, incredulous.

“Mhm,” Arcadia nodded, “Also bought some blisterwort and canis root. No potions I know of that can be made using those, but who knows?”

Aela’s gaze turned steely, “If you had to take a guess, what could be made?”

“I’ve no earthly clue, but it must be… aromatic, to say the least.”

“Can we see a sample?”

“Um, aye? A moment.”

Arcadia then stole herself into the back room, and after a minute or so of rifling, she came out with a sample of each herb. The blisterwort was a fat little mushroom with an orange cap, and the canis root looked to be a branch plucked off a dead tree. Neither were particularly noteworthy aside from a powerful aroma that even had Niravas’ eyes watering some. Vilkas and Aela shuffled back far behind them. Aela wrinkled her nose, but stepped forward and picked up the mushroom, bringing it slightly closer to her nose.

“This is it,” She confirmed, “Who bought these?”

“Oh, this bloke that rolled into town a couple months ago. If you’re looking for him, he said to send messages to the Mare for his orders.”

“This idiot’s more inept than I thought,” Niravas grumbled, “Miss, when’s the next shipment?”

“Should be here any day now, do you want me to send for you when it gets here?”

“Yes, before you send for this customer.”

She gave them a wary look, but then glanced to the Companions. That was enough to get her to agree. Working within the law really did make things much easier. Otherwise, they’d have to stake out the place until the thief finally came around for his order. They thanked her before hurrying out of the shop. Maybe it was the light, but Niravas could swear Vilkas and Aela had begun to look a tad green.

The next night, Vilkas showed up to the Huntsman where Niravas sat chatting with Jenassa. At first, they didn’t even notice him come in, as the slight buzz from a tankard and a half along with the chatter of other patrons dulled their senses. Their indication to his presence was Jenassa sneering and groaning before she downed the last of her tankard in one go and promptly left. Niravas tipped their head back to see Vilkas standing behind them.

“Hey, doll,” They said, slurring more than was necessary, “Weird fishy bones get here yet?”

“Nine, how drunk are you?”

“Not very,” The grinned, dropping the pointless act, “But your expression when you thought I was sloshed was pretty funny.”

“Well, obviously you’re drunk enough to think it’s funny in the first place.”

“Or I’m just easily amused.”

He rolled his eyes, “Just get up.”

Within an hour, Niravas sat crouched up upon Belethor’s, the building adjacent from and in full view of the entrance to Arcadia’s Cauldron. Vilkas had positioned himself behind the building, and had informed them that Aela was _somewhere_. Niravas had absolutely no idea where, however, and that thought was extremely unnerving. They couldn’t help but to think that she would’ve made an excellent thief in another life.

They both had their hands positioned over the hilts of their blades, ready to draw and watching on nervously as their mark appeared. He was wrapped in a dark blue cloak, obscuring most of his features, but as his hands reached out, they donned fingerless gloves. As he entered through the main entrance, obviously making an effort to inconspicuously look around. Niravas, having seemingly gone unnoticed, silently dropped down from their perch. They stood to the side of the door and readied their dagger.

He came out soon later with a foul smelling bag slung over his shoulder. Niravas grabbed him by the high collar of his frankly garish, also dark shirt, and placed their dagger to his shirt. Just going off of his dress and ignoring the obvious contents of his bag, his attire all but screamed ‘thief’. He was a scrawny little Nord, who—interestingly enough—had an expression that seemed to be as equally jovial as it was fearful. Before Niravas could get a word in, he excitedly spoke.

“By the Nine, you’re really here!” He exclaimed, “I’ve been waiting all these weeks!”

Niravas kept their confusion masked in an intimidating glare. “Oh?”

“Yes, and see all that I’ve accomplished in your name! I’ve wanted to join the Thieves Guild for ages, and now I’m hoping I’ve proven myself in your eyes,” He rambled, speaking so animatedly that their throat began to split upon the dagger.

Niravas stood in stunned silence before finally speaking, “Oh, you’ve proven something, alright,” voice taking on a dark edge.

“So, you’ll let me join?” The man would’ve been jumping for joy if there wasn’t a dagger on his throat, “Oh, thank y—”

An arrow, expertly fletched, had suddenly found itself embedded in the thief’s skull, the childish grin only slacking slightly. Niravas scoffed before wiping their blade on his overly expensive shirt and throwing his corpse to the ground. Aela approached from wherever she had hidden herself (behind Belethor’s, apparently), and placed her boot on his now-still chest. She wrenched the arrow out of his forehead with a wet squelching sound, and wiped it off on his also darkly-colored trousers.

She sneered, giving the limp body a kick. There was an audible snap as the head whipped back from the force.

“Fucking fool,” Vilkas muttered.

“Shame, too,” Niravas noted, “He’s got skill.”

Niravas attempted to resist the urge, but ended up patting the dead thief down. They found a large pouch filled with drakes, a few small valuables such as jewelry and assorted gems, and a little, rusty key on his person. They happily pocketed them, ignoring the pointed stares from the two Companion, and tossed the key to Vilkas.

“The key’s likely to his safehouse. Good luck finding it,” They said before striding off with a mock salute.

“Wait!” Aela burst out, storming forwards and easily catching up with Niravas’ lazy pace, “Who in Oblivion _are_ you? Thieves Guild, like he said?”

They laughed, “What gave it away?”

She looked to be about ready to put and arrow into their head as well, but Vilkas put a hand on her shoulder. Niravas took that moment to continue on, outwardly keeping their composure and desperately trying not to quake in their boots. They wondered briefly if the duo could smell their fear, as they remained just in earshot.

She flinched back, “And how long have you known? You two seem pretty well acquainted.”

There was a pause. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“ _How long_?”

“Ten years?” He answered, nervousness making it sound more like a question than a statement.

She stared him down, “You know I can’t just not tell, right?”

“Kodlak probably knows. He’s aware that they have a pretty good idea of what we are, anyhow.”

“ _Shit_ ,” She breathed.

“Just…” He sighed, “Say we had some outside help, alright?”

“Do you trust that _thief_?” She asked, drawing out the word like it was something foul.

Without hesitation, “I do.”

They walked away after that, truly shaken by this experience and very much planning to drink at the Huntsman until they weren’t anymore. They could leave out this last bit in their report back to Mercer, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I'm actually updating on Monday as planned, not a day or two late and pretending I didn't totally forget my deadline


	9. Prelude IX

_7th of First Seed, 4E 196_

Windhelm had always been an absolute shitshow, being racist and prejudiced even for Nordic standards for as long as anyone could remember. Outsiders, particularly the larger numbers of Dunmer and Argonians had been segregated in derelict portions of town, not able to leave (even by necessity) without serious risk. It had only grown worse in the wake of the Civil War and under the rule of a jarl who refused to lift a finger to their plight, who viewed allowing them to live in the city at all as _charity_. It was, for lack of better terms, fucking disgusting.

Vilkas had been in this city for all of ten minutes, and he had already witnessed a young Argonian woman bundled tightly in furs desperately fleeing a trio of Nords. She had been running, and—not looking where she was going out of fear—barreled right into him. He held out his arms to steady herself, but shrunk back as if burned. He didn’t blame her, honestly, and took on a soft tone to assure her that he meant no harm.

She stayed back, eyeing him with suspicion and an unmistakable flash of recognition. He took a step forward, but she turned and fled. He looked around, noticing the men chasing after her were gone. He rather hoped they hadn’t tried to cut her off wherever she was going. Wishful thinking maybe, but hopefully they recognized his armor, and opted to leave her be. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much he could do now having no earthly clue where she ran off to.

Vilkas turned towards the tavern, Candlehearth Hall. It was a cozy little place, warm and stalwart against the icy winds. Aela was already inside, flirting easily with the Nordic woman serving her drinks. She placed the tankard down on the table, and winked as she passed him. He made his way over to where Aela was sitting and pulled out the chair across from her. They had just gotten back from a farm on the outskirts of town, killing a frost troll of all things. Didn’t they prefer to stay in the wilderness? He supposed spring would be coming soon, but it had been a bit late the previous year. Maybe the winter was harder than he thought.

“Making friends?” He joked, eyes flicking to where the waitress was talking to the older woman who ran the bar.

She rolled her eyes, “Oh, hush.”

He was about to retort before his gaze was drawn to a dark, quick flurry of movement at the top of the steps to the second floor. He quickly stood, chair screeching piercingly against the old, wooden floors. Aela, sitting with her back to the stairs, failed to see it. She quickly turned around, following Vilkas’ gaze, but she had already missed it. He simply asked her to sit back down; he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew _exactly_ what was going on.

He ascended the stairs cautiously, but also trying not to draw too much attention to himself. Luckily, most of the other patrons were too deep in their cups to notice, and the only eyes he could feel on him were Aela’s from where she sat. He rounded the corner to see a strikingly familiar figure arguing vehemently with a Nordic woman in very similar leathers. So, he wasn’t too far off the mark after all. Suddenly, Niravas whirled around to face him.

“And _you_!” They said accusingly, “What in Azura’s name are you doing here?”

He shrugged, “Contract.”

They opened their mouth to retort, but were cut off when the woman piped up, “Remind me again why I was supposed to alert you if a Companion showed up in my Hold?”

There was an awkward silence until Vilkas let out an, “Excuse me?”

“You know a bit too much for us _not_ to keep an eye on you, doll.”

“Oh, shit,” exclaimed the woman, “This is him, eh?”

“You know what? Fuck it. Just get in your reports, and stop skimping on your payments, yeah? Otherwise isn’t good for your health.”

“Yeah yeah, or face Mercer’s wrath, and all that,” She rolled her eyes, “Get out of here already.”

Niravas stormed down the stairs in a huff, ears twitching angrily. Vilkas followed, glancing back suspiciously at the woman who was in the process of knocking back her tankard, seemingly unshaken by a threat from some very dangerous people (people who likely also employed her). Aela was still at her seat, chatting playfully with the pretty waitress who flirted right back. Her eyes widened some upon seeing Niravas, but she merely sighed and ordered another round.

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this,” She announced as soon as they sat down.

“Welcome to the club,” Vilkas agreed.

She looked between them, “So, does this happen often?”

“What, odd, unplanned meetings that almost always involve something weird going down? Oddly, enough,” Niravas confirmed, “This has happened at least half a dozen times or more.”

Aela seemed to want to reply, but after a moment of not knowing what to say, she simply downed her drink.

* * *

_8th of First Seed, 4E 196_

“Gods, I fucking hate Windhelm.”

And that was really the only way to describe the situation. Niravas—bleary and barely awake—had been awoken by the sudden commotion not far from the Guild safehouse. They currently stood at the corner rounding to the graveyard, a goodly distance away from the scene, where a vaguely familiar Nordic woman lay. From what they could see past the gaping crowd, she had been stripped naked and was riddled with long, diagonal cuts, precise and deliberate in their placement. They could be wrong, but she was likely missing vital organs. Guards were pushing people back, three people being held off to the side as they were questioned.

Aela and Vilkas, as to be expected of someone devoted to the people, were already at the forefront of the crowd, questioning the guards and witnesses alike. Their expressions were severe as they looked upon the grisly scene. Niravas made no attempt to make their presence known (quite the opposite, in fact, as they slumped further against the wall), but Vilkas then, and Niravas got a good view of her face, blue from cold and death.

Ah, that made sense of Aela’s hovering. It was the nice tavern waitress from Candlehearth Hall. It was always a shocking thing to have been just speaking to someone, only to find their mangled corpse come morning. From his new position, now in clear view of Niravas, their eyes managed to catch as he surveyed the crowd, and happened to notice them. He nudged Aela as she stared in transfixed horror at the corpse, said something, and began to make his way over to them. Fucking terrific.

“Did you know this is the _third_ girl murdered?” He informed almost accusatively.

They did, but so did everyone and their mother in this town. An older Colovian woman (Viola Giordano, they had been informed) had been extremely vocal about the matter. Niravas hadn’t even been there a week, but every time they ran into her it was _The Butcher this_ and _The Butcher that_. She littered the city with flyers, and frankly Niravas was already sick of seeing both them and her. She had even come up with this theory that a Dunmer was responsible. It was for this reason that they made no effort to ignore the insult.

“Aye, but don’t go blaming me or mine!”

“But you knew! And you know who’s doing this, too!

“How in Oblivion would I know that? It isn’t the Guild’s job to stop this! In fact,” They added, seeing Aela still mercilessly hounding the guards for information, “It may as well be _yours_.”

He glanced over to Aela and began to walk over, dragging them along by their sleeve, “Well, now it’s yours, too. Come on.”

“Oh, look who decided to show up,” Aela said upon seeing their approach, “No one saw shit.”

“Of course they didn’t,” Vilkas remarked as a coroner lifted the body away.

They followed the advice of the guards, and Niravas couldn’t help but to think how convenient it was that they didn’t have to walk far. Inside the Hall of the Dead, it smelled putrid, though not necessarily due to the scent of decay. The air was thick with embalming chemicals, and Niravas—despite having left Morrowind nearly a century ago—couldn’t help but find a certain disgust with the practice. The halls twisted and winded in odd directions, tombs lining every wall.

Shortly after entering, the body was placed down on a work table, of sorts, strewn with various blades and instruments. Helgird, they learned her name was, was a priestess of Arkay and remarked upon the state of the body. She was indeed missing some organs, namely the lungs and spleen. Afterwards, they were ushered out as she began to prepare the body for burial. What a barbaric thing to do with the dead.

Niravas hadn’t been in the Palace of the Kings, yet. It was, of course, extremely tempting, but with how the Stormcloaks (especially those here in Windhelm) treated non-Nords? It was too much of a risk. The steward was an interesting character. Just like the guards, he seemed extremely willing to sit back and let them do all the work. Guess he didn’t really expect the guards to turn up anything, either. No wonder, really, when all they seemed to do was just question the witnesses instead of investigating further.

They were now back to square one. By now, the crime scene had been cleared: no guards, no crowd, no corpse. The only thing left behind had been something Aela pointed out. It was a trail of blood that had been distorted by footfall and slush, but a trail nonetheless. How could the guards have missed this? Did they even _want_ to catch the serial killer that had been plaguing their city for months? They followed it—just as they had a couple years ago when that renegade thief set up shop in Whiterun—and were led to a manor in the northwest district.

Vilkas and Aela went to examine the outside portion of the property, but Niravas had been at this for long enough to know that it was easiest to use the front entrance now that they had no reason to hide. The creases of the handle were encrusted with blood. Sloppy, especially for a practiced killer. With a flick of their wrists, their lockpicks were out and ready for use. It took a moment, the lock being both of high quality and caked in blood. They’d even admit they broke a pick or two, but it wasn’t long until it was open, and—

“Stop! In the name of the Jarl!”

“Oh, Azura’s fucking tits,” They sighed, but before they could defend themself, Vilkas and Aela rounded their way to the front of the house.

“Guardsman, do you realize a girl has just been murdered?”

“Of course, but what—”

“The trail leads right here,” Aela pointed out with no small measure of spite, “Come on, pay attention!”

“And what gives you the right to investigate a crime?”

“We’re Companions,” Vilkas said, gesturing to the lupine insignia on his armor, “And you’d do well to look the other way if you’re not going to investigate this yourself.”

The guard looked to Niravas, who was smiling smugly where they leaned upon the open doorway. Were he not wearing a helmet, they were sure they would be visibly red in the face with fury. Aela had gotten in his face, snarling out her words, and Vilkas stood behind her, arm out almost protectively in front of Niravas.

“You got lucky, _elf_ ,” He said menacingly before storming off.

Before either of them could say just how incredibly _stupid_ doing that was, Niravas had already disappeared into the house. It was dimly lit, but they were able to make out the continuing blood trail in the center of a stark path that cut through the dust. They coughed as the dust in the air was unsettled by their movement, but stopped in the foyer as a shiver ran along their skin. Something was deeply _wrong_ with this place in a way they couldn’t quite describe. Seeing their reaction, Aela and Vilkas cautiously followed them in, and found themselves frozen in quite the same manner.

Niravas forced themself to continue along anyhow, “This place ain’t right.”

“Maybe it’s the trail of blood,” Vilkas offered sarcastically.

“Beyond the murders, you ass.”

Aela ignored their banter in favor of meticulously searching the house, holding a cloth over her nose and mouth to muffle the dust. They joined her, but most of what they found was your average household items, pots and empty mead bottles now dusty and containing the odd skeever droppings or two. The trail led to the only real thing of note: a chest. Niravas couldn’t make sense of why it ended here. Where was the body? Had the murderer gotten injured, and this is their own blood? Whatever the case, the chest contained a frankly absurd quantity of the pamphlets Viola had put up around the city and a journal. It was small, leatherbound and worn with half the pages missing. The pages that remained were scrawled in messily with a thick, smeared ink.

Vilkas opened up to one of the later entries, and nearly dropped it in shock.

“Fuck,” He breathed.

“Shit,” Niravas murmured, looking over his shoulder, “I knew it.”

Aela peaked around from where she was investigating a different room, “What is it?”

“Necromancy.”

“Honestly?” Aela admitted, “I don’t know what I expected. Now, someone come over here.”

Vilkas pocketed the journal, and they made their way over to the other room. Aela stood between a pair of wardrobes, pamphlets scattered at her feet and a glowing green amulet dangling from her grip. She held it out, and Niravas eyed it inquisitively. No doubt about it now. Even if that journal had been the result of a madman with a violent streak, this amulet confirmed it was real necromancy being practiced here.

“There’s more. This wardrobe doesn’t have much dust on it,” She said gesturing to the one on the left.

Niravas was no stranger to creative ways to hide misdeeds, having spent a lifetime uprooting them and stealing whatever items of value lay within. This could mean gold, jewels, expensive keepsakes, or even secrets. In this case, it was very much the latter, and the answer to their previous question had been answered. The bodies were in here, torn apart and sewn back together all wrong. Magic hung heavy in the air like electricity, smelling of ozone and burn. Sigils of ink and blood had been almost meticulously etched on every visible surface, and candles began to burn low as they melted into the floor.

Even Niravas had to hold back a gag at that horrid stench, they could only imagine how it was for the two lycans, who desperately held their sleeves to their noses and mouths as they refused to enter the wardrobe. They quickly surveyed the room for anything of value before snatching the journal off of what could only be described as an ‘altar’ and quickly exiting. They slammed the false backing and the double doors of the wardrobe without looking back. Clutching the second journal, they urged the other two to follow, and they complied with no argument.

On their way out of the house, expressions grim, Niravas skimmed through the old diary only to find that it was mostly lists and notes pertaining to whatever ritual was being attempted. Horrific, for certain, but it still didn’t help them identify the necromancer. They were about to head back to the crime scene or maybe even the Palace, as they were out of leads, but an older Nordic woman approached instead. She held a bouquet of white lilies, no doubt imported and having cost a fortune, but she looked like she could afford it. She had that weary look about her that only the grieving could match, something Niravas well recognized after Karliah’s betrayal. Ancestor’s, that had been near eighteen years ago, hadn’t it? This woman’s despair was much more recent.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in my daughter’s house?!” She exclaimed, startled and outraged.

“Um…” They were at quite a loss. “Your daughter’s house?” They echoed.

“Aye,” She confirmed, “This was her home, Hjerim.”

“Was? I see,” Aela murmured.

“Ma’am, there’s no easy way to say this. We tracked the killer to his house.” Vilkas awkwardly gestured to the blood-encrusted door handle.

She gasped softly, “Ah, well…” There was a long pause. “How did you get in, exactly?”

Almost sheepishly, “A talent of mine,” Niravas admitted.

That caused a startled, mirthless bark of laughter to burst from the grieving mother, “You could have asked for the key, you know. I would have freely given it if there was any chance of bringing this sick bastard to justice.”

“About that,” Aela began, “We’re out of leads at the moment.” She held up the amulet and it radiated a sickly green. “Do you know anything about this.”

“Hm,” She thought a moment, “Try Calixto’s. His shop is full to bursting of magic items like that. He’s something of an expert, I’ve heard.”

“We’ll check it out, thanks,” Aela said, regarding the amulet with a frown.

They were just about to turn round the steps and leave, when the woman’s voice called out to them from in front of the house. The flowers now lied against the door, at her feet. “Thank you. You’re the only hope I’ve had of avenging my daughter in months.”

They roamed the streets again, lost for a moment. A helpful bystander that thankfully had nothing to say about a Dunmer outside the Grey Quarter pointed the way, happy to be of assistance. They finally found the place just east of the main gate. It was an old, but sturdy building, much like the rest of Windhelm’s architecture. It was the one positive thing they had to say about the city. They could see curios of all sorts through the windows that shined out warm firelight onto the frigid stone.

“A pawnshop?” Aela questioned, “Even that mother didn’t seem too sure about this.”

“Aye,” Vilkas said, equally as agitated by the circumstance, “But it’s all we have for the moment.”

Niravas shrugged, none to perturbed, “If this doesn’t lead anywhere, we can always stake out the place. Worked last time, didn’t it?”

Calixto Corrium was an odd man, to say the least. He had a dishonest, rat-like face and a poorly groomed goatee and clothes that looked more expensive than they actually were. Niravas doubted even half of the items in here were magical; some expert. It all finally clicked when the man took one look at the amulet, and—with a funny twitch in his eye and a hurry to his tone—told them that without a doubt it belonged to the court wizard, some old man named Wuunferth the Unliving. No doubt the moniker there made him an easy scapegoat, but no.

Niravas leaned in close to Vilkas, raising up on their tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “He’s lying. Distract him for me, doll.”

Vilkas seemed to want to protest, but complied due to the severity of the situation. Fumbling for a moment, he gestured to something held beneath the glass of a display case, feigning interest. The man seemed delighted enough to spew as much information on it he could, all his attention on what was essentially his own little performance. Niravas easily faded into the background, and slinked over to the counter. They found little of note there (but couldn’t resist pocketing a drake or two), and moved on to the small loft area above the entrance. Calixto still jabbered on, oblivious, about.. a spoon? Okay, then.

Up in the loft was a chest containing knickknacks, sundries, and other such unimportant things. They were just about to give up, knowing full well their time was running short, but their hands drew across old, worn leather. They quickly wrenched it out from under the pile of useless things and slipped it into a pocket before returning to the others. Just in time as well, it seems. The little tour had concluded shortly after they shouldered their way back next to Vilkas. They excused themselves politely as possible, hoping he wouldn’t notice that they obviously had little interest in anything his shop had to offer.

* * *

Vilkas knew full well nothing good would come from coming to Windhelm, the hefty sum he and Aela received from that farmer for slaying that frost troll be damned. He didn’t, however, expect to also end up having to solve a _murder_ of all things. In fact, with only the help of two others, it had been solved in less than a day. Hadn’t this city been plagued by death for months? He’d recognized Calixto as a witness from the crime scene, and he was willing to bet he was at all the others, too. Ridiculous!

They three had all flipped through the contents of the final journal. It had actually been signed, believe it or not, and detailed everything from his adventures in Cyrodiil to his sister’s death to his grisly attempts to bring her back. It was pretty damning evidence, as he was sure “smells like a corpse” isn’t going to fly in court.

Niravas, of course, had split before this all came to a close, which was likely a smart move. Even _he_ didn’t want to enter the Palace of the Kings a second time, and he was a Nord and a Companion, to boot. Jorleif was, quite frankly, startled at how much progress had been made in less than a day despite the fact that the guards had spent months on the case. Maybe he refused to acknowledge that they all but gave up after the witnesses failed to report anything of value.

He watched as a small regiment was quickly formed up and ordered to march down to the little shop. Calixto had made some attempted haphazard, desperate escape, of course, but ultimately he was caught trying to jump out the window of his second story. Unfortunately for him, he’s no seasoned thief, and wasn’t able to recover fast enough to make a break for it. Dragged kicking and screaming to the dungeons of the Palace, Calixto was sentenced to be executed come morning.

And if he saw a hooded figure perched atop the adjacent rooftop, shoulders shaking with mirth as Calixto was hauled away, he didn’t say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this was another long one!


	10. Prelude X

_11th of Rain’s Hand, 4E 198_

Niravas was willing to bet it was nearing dawn now, sipping at a cup of coffee Vekel had prepared for them before he retired for the night. It wasn’t helping much, as their eyes kept drooping and their thoughts straying. They couldn’t go to sleep quite yet, however. They were almost done, and only had an hour left at most. Perhaps they wouldn’t be so tired if there was some excitement, as they never had much difficulty with long jobs before. They tapped their foot impatiently, despite the weariness telling them to stop.

They had been helping with Delvin with the bookkeeping all night, and their hand was cramping. They were more than ready to turn in for the night. A few hours ago they would’ve suggested a trip to the Bee & Barb before they ever ended such an uneventful day, but now they just wanted to pick the least filthy bed in the cistern and collapse into it. Delvin, on the other hand, had long since been used to the occasional day full of paperwork, and little else. Shame, he had been quite the sneak thief in his youth, joining up shortly after Niravas.

He had been a quiet kid, only about twelve or so when the Guild took him in. Niravas hadn’t been there long, but they had the experience to teach him to be an absolute snake with a blade. He turned to Karliah for instruction in the art of remaining unseen and unheard. Gallus however? He taught him the books, the merit in literature and mathematics. Their books had never been more organized since Delvin joined up, so few ever really minded when he got into trouble on a job.

Him and Gallus were similar in that regard, preferring scholarly pursuits over more active trades. It didn’t help what happened all those years ago. Simply said, the boy fucked up, and Niravas had done what they could to pick up the pieces. Most of that involved helping him hide the bodies. He had merely come back in a shock, blood all over his hands, and Gallus found a safe place for him to stay while the guards were investigating. When he came back a year later, he was lot grimmer, more tired looking. Nobody ever asked, and they three were content not to answer.

It hit him hard, the news about what Karliah had done. He—like most everyone in the Guild—refused to believe it, but had no choice but to allow Mercer to exile her. Gallus was dead, and all the evidence pointed to Karliah. They should’ve investigated more, but by that point, Mercer’s word was law. The man had joined around the same time Delvin did, and climbed his way through the ranks faster than Niravas could blink. He wasn’t one to be questioned, and now that he was the de facto leader in place of Gallus, this was doubly so.

Their brows creased in confusion, snapped out of their dwellings on the past. Most of the night, they had only been half paying attention to the papers (which was why they were far more often assigned to fieldwork), but this required their full concentration. What _was_ this? Numbers were being added and dropped out of nowhere. Too much interest was taken, or not enough. Some jobs they _knew_ happened weren’t recorded at all, even the ones they remember documenting themself from their duties in Whiterun.

“Del, these numbers don’t make any sense.”

“What d'you mean?” He took the papers and glanced over them. “Where?”

“Under the third and fifth entries, mostly.”

Delvin sighed, and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Yeah, just do the best you can.”

“You don’t think this alarming?”

“I do, Nira. Believe me I do, but…” He trailed off.

“Del, who had these papers last?” Though they had a sinking feeling they knew the answer.

He was quiet for a moment before murmuring out, “Fucking Mercer.”

Of fucking course. They honestly didn’t know what they expected. Since Karliah and Gallus, he’s gone off the deep end. They hoped these odd numbers were merely the result of a man gone mad rather than any actual foul play, but neither boded well for the Guild. The most worrying part of this was Delvin’s reaction; he didn’t seem surprised in the slightest. Just how long had this been going on?

“We’ll finish this tomorrow,” Delvin said, gathering up all the papers strewn across the table, “It’s getting late.”

“ _Getting_ late?” They echoed, “S’ _been_ late.”

He laughed softly, that sad look in his eyes wavering, and for a moment Niravas was just content to have this. Damn Mercer and whatever he was involved in. It would all have to be dealt with another time, another day.

* * *

 

Night would be setting in soon, and the moisture in the air was beginning to settle in as a low, cold mist. The stall vendors were all almost done packing up and had long since stopped selling. There were still a few crowds about, but mostly those shuffling home and out of the market district. Vilkas passed by Carlotta Valentia, who gave him a tired smile in greeting as he passed. In one hand she held the heavy bag that contained everything left over from the day, and in the other held Mila’s hand, who skipped merrily along next to her.

Vilkas himself would be staying out quite a bit longer, as he had learned over the years that the best way to ensure a night’s sleep without his condition getting in the way was to bring himself to exhaustion before bed. This could be done any number of ways, such as going out for a hunt or taking a lover for the night. Right now, however, it was already quite late and a walk would suit him fine. The entire Circle would be going out for a hunt the next night, anyhow.

Passing by one of the late night crowds as they exited the more highly populated area, a child stumbled into him, muttering an apology as they righted themself and continued along. Vilkas frowned, as he was sure something about that encounter was _off_ , but the two full moons were already well on their way to their zenith, and he honestly didn’t feel like dealing with it. That was, of course, until that same child (dirt poor, from the look of them), approached him once again. They did it discreetly as possible, something glinting in their hand. He whipped around and caught their wrist just as they came within reach. They had a dagger in their grasp and looked—rather than afraid—quite sheepish. It was then that he also noted that the dagger was in fact _his_.

“So, I’d like to start off with an apology?” They said, almost like a question, in a noticeable Nibenese accent.

He stared down the kid. What was their aim? To kill him with the small pocket-knife he kept in his boot? They wriggled in his grasp, but he wouldn’t let loose lest they make a break for it.

“I was actually trying to put it back, but uh, you saw how that went,” They tried to explain.

“I thought the aim of thievery was to keep the things you steal,” He quipped.

“Oh, shut it,” They snapped, “Just wasn’t supposed to steal from you, is all.”

He raised a brow.

“Boss’ orders: ‘no stealing from the Companions’. You’re not in armor and it’s dark, how’s I supposed to know?”

Boss’ orders? While it’s generally just a smart move not to steal from the highly trained order of warriors, why would that need to be a specific order from higher up? Unless, of course, they wanted to stay within their good graces. It couldn’t be, but really there wasn’t any other explanation other than their employees being so stupid as to actually need that instruction. Then, however there would be little reason to hire them in the first place.

“Say, this boss of yours, they Dunmer? Red hair? Smart mouth?”

Their eyes widened in fear, “Oh, damn, _you’re_ the one? Shit, just take your dagger, alright?” They held it out. “I’ll even pay you not to tell ‘em, please!”

He released their arm and gingerly took the blade back from the little thief’s shaking hands, “No, I won’t—listen, just calm down, and get out of here.”

The child squeaked in fear, but pulled up their hood and scurried off into the night. By the point all this was over, Vilkas was left alone on the street, torchlight all put out and crowds dissipated. Despite the fact that he couldn’t sense anyone about, he still felt like someone had watched that entire exchange with great amusement. There were no figures on the roof, no flashing grins or sarcastic remarks. He was just alone in that alley clutching a small blade. He tucked it back into his boot.

They would have to ask Niravas about this the next time he saw them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this week's a short one, mostly because the last two were pretty long and I was a bit burned out


	11. Prelude XI

_4th day of Evening Star, 4E 199_

It was late in the evening, and the previously sleepy tavern was now beginning to awaken. Niravas lazily watched as Vekel finished up his routine to prepare for the rest of the night, when the Flagon would be full to bursting with the surliest thieves in Skyrim. He had been behind the counter for the past few hours now, cleaning tankards and glasses then leaving them stacked up within easy reach. Those few resting on the beds provided awoke and began to shamble around, either finding a seat or leaving to bring in their next haul.

Niravas themself had spent the past few days mostly turning in reports and working with an increasingly agitated Mercer regarding their hold on Whiterun. Nothing really had been decided beyond that they should simply continue what they were doing, despite the Guild’s slowly dissolving reign. Things had been getting progressively worse for over two decades, and _damn_ if they didn’t wholeheartedly believe in this whole curse theory now. They had been nearly getting caught over things that hadn’t happened since they were a novice. They don’t just _break picks_ or _stumble_ , especially not in the midst of a heist.

Vex had entered and took a seat across from Niravas, rousing them from their light doze. She had quite grown into her skills, becoming one of the Guild’s finest. She was still a bit gangly and lanky, but it didn’t affect her skill with a blade none. If anything, it gave her more reach. That permanent scowl also didn’t change much, only in the respect that it had been quite perfected (if it hadn’t been before).

“So,” She began, “I’ve been hearing some interesting rumors.”

Niravas raised a brow, “Have you?”

“Yeah, like you’ve been seen directly working with the Companions _multiple_ times since your being stationed in Whiterun.”

Niravas, still half asleep, didn’t feel it prudent to reply.

“And you know, I thought ‘no big deal’, yeah? Until fucking this,” She said, slamming a small package down on the table.

“Where’d this come from?” They said, finally properly awake and sitting up, “Any idea what it is?”

“It hasn’t been opened, but I think it’s...” She tilted her head to the side as she examined it further. “A dagger?”

Niravas picked it up. It didn’t have the courier’s stamp, meaning it couldn’t have been sent by post. Vex was right, however, they could indeed feel the faint outline of a small dagger, as well as the crinkling of what sounded like paper. A note inside, perhaps, explaining all this.

“Who’s it for?”

“You, dumbass.”

“From?”

“Sapphire brought it down, said you’d know who sent it.”

They stared it down for a moment before tentatively undoing the twine and cloth wrapping. Inside was the little weapon, steel and optimal for throwing. It was a bit brighter than usual steel, however, reflecting the firelight inside the cistern in the most interesting ways. Delicate carvings had been made into the guard and pommel, the hilt padded with dark, fine leathers, and the blade sharpened to an immeasurable point. Around the hilt was wrapped a paper, held in place with twine, that simply read:

“ _To replace the one you lost.”_

It had no signature, though it didn’t need it. Niravas knew exactly who sent it, and they sat there just taking a moment to grin and giggle like an idiot. Vex declined to comment. It took them a moment to remember, but all those years ago, when the jarl had been killed, they had thrown a dagger at the assassin. When the guards had come in, they had no chance to retrieve it. Ancestors, that was so long ago, how could he have even remembered? He should’ve figured they’d have replaced it by now, but still, the gesture didn’t go unappreciated. There was, however, one other thing of note here.

“There a reason you’re laughing like a madman?” Brynjolf asked as he approached their table.

“Someone just received a present from an admirer,” Vex teased.

They had no way to dispute that, did they? “I mean that’s not all it is. Just… how could he even know? So coincidental, s’fucking uncanny.”

Vex and Brynjolf shared confused glances.

“I’ve never told anyone my name day,” They admitted.

It was true, as they never had a reason. Jenassa _might_ know, but if she ever did, she likely forgot. Niravas themself forgot upon occasion. Mer rarely celebrate the years going by past the age of majority. Maybe the odd centennial or two, but (though they may have lost track of their exact age) they well knew that was a time away.

“I’m sorry, your name day?” Brynjolf echoed incredulously.

Vex snorted, “How fucking cliché. What’s the note say?”

Niravas shrugged, “S’not important.”

She merely raised an eyebrow at that before scrambling over the table and attempting to snatch the letter out of their hand. They snatched it away and held it behind them, but still the paper was yanked from their grasp. The hall had gone very quiet then, those slowly trickling in for a drink before a night in the town stopping in their tracks. Even Vex, half splayed out on the table went still, slowly slinking back into her seat without calling attention to herself. Brynjolf’s mouth snapped shut before he could get out a witty remark.

Mercer towered above those seated at the table, tall even for a Breton. He was unshaven and had deep bags under his eyes that came more from stress than lack of sleep, but it didn’t take away from his raw intimidation. If Vex’s angry looks could kill, Mercer’s could obliterate. He wasn’t a man you’d want to cross. He frowned as he examined the note.

“What’s this?”

“A gift,” Niravas answered cooly, long since used to the Guildmaster’s threatening aura but still unable to meet his gaze, “S’nothing.”

Mercer merely quirked a brow, but said nothing. His expression was all that was needed to convey his message: _you’d better hope it’s nothing_.

* * *

_11th day of Evening Star, 4E 199_

Vilkas sat in the Bannered Mare, his third tankard before him and half empty, fidgeting nervously as he had for the past two weeks. Aela and Farkas had dragged him out here, said he needed to relax and that he wasn’t nearly as subtle in his brooding as he hoped. And that’s what it was, really: brooding. He still isn’t quite sure what came over him, and he very nearly regrets it.

Two weeks ago he had asked Eorlund to make him a dagger—finest one he could—and that he’d even pay him if that’s what it took. Of course he wouldn’t take his money, they may as well have been family after all, and he made it thankfully with little questioning other than its make. He narrowed his eyes when he specifically requested a _throwing_ dagger, as even Aela, who was savvy to lighter weapons, didn’t have much taste for them.

It was a stupid idea really, and now he was acting half his age, worrying about some stupid present as if he were a teenager. It was likely that they replaced the old one they lost back at Dragonsreach, or had even managed to retrieve it somehow. Hopefully, at least, they would like it for its worth, Skyforge steel generally costing a pretty septim. Aela and Farkas, (and even Skjor to an extent) had been badgering him relentlessly on what had put him in such a state. Eorlund and Kodlak never said a word, likely knowing exactly what was going on. He had hoped that Kodlak wouldn’t relay what he had told him all those years ago, but Eorlund wasn’t just his confidant and even the Harbinger needs a little guidance every now and again.

His brother had come to him about mid-afternoon saying that him and Aela were heading off to the Mare, a gentle, unspoken invitation. Before he could even accept or decline, however, Aela was there saying he absolutely had to go, no if’s and’s or but’s. He wasn’t really in the mood for sliding deep into his cups, but it was better than thunder-clouding around Jorrvaskr, he supposed. After they had gotten settled in, drinks ordered and brought, Aela started off the little interrogation by going straight for the jugular.

“This little spell have anything to do with that thief?”

“...No.” Damn, too long to respond.

“Um, ‘thief’?” Farkas echoed, expression one of genuine concern.

“It’s nothing,” Vilkas responded a little too quickly.

Aela kicked him under the table, “Come on, out with it.”

Vilkas begrudgingly relayed his and Aela’s encounters with the Thieves Guild. There was that burglar that they needed help with catching, and that murderer up in Windhelm. He very carefully omitted his former association with Niravas. He hoped desperately that he would be able to keep this all secret, but this was no longer an interrogation. It was an intervention. Aela gave him this _look_ , and he knew that if he didn’t bring it up, she would.

He sighed, “Listen, Farkas, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Alright,” He said cautiously, as if he were afraid that what was about to be said would ruin something fundamental about their relationship.

Gods, he hoped it wouldn’t; he relied on his brother far too much for that. Sure Eorlund and Kodlak were good for advice, but Farkas was someone he could lean on, a pillar of emotional support. He was always good with that sort of thing, able to read people in a way Vilkas just couldn’t. They could always tell each other anything, so why had it taken him nearly twenty years to say this?

“I’ve known that thief for far longer than that, though. We met shortly before our inoculation when I almost arrested them. We’ve been in frequent contact with them ever since.”

Farkas was silent for a bit, and Vilkas was about to elaborate before, “You know you could’ve told me, right?”

“I told Kodlak because I didn’t know what to do, and Aela only knows because she’s actually met them—out of disguise anyhow.”

“Out of disguise?”

Dammit. He hadn’t had much to drink, but it was enough to loosen his tongue apparently. He relayed that very first night at the old Battle-Born house, and how Niravas was _almost_ arrested. He laughed at his own obliviousness for failing to recognize them later that fateful night at Dragonsreach. Laughed at how he never even knew their name (only that the one they gave him wasn’t it) until almost seven years later. This lead to him telling more and more about those chance encounters of dancing around one another, with Niravas being all flashing wit and serpentine grins.

“Talos’ hairy balls, it’s worse than I thought.”

“You know,” Farkas said with a confused frown, “At first I was worried about you, and now I still am, but for different reasons.”

What? Oh gods, he was _waxing_ , wasn’t he? He looked down to the half-empty tankard whose handle he still held. Normally, he didn’t have a problem with semi-drunkenly word-vomiting, especially around people he trusted, but that’s enough for tonight. He already ended up revealing far more than he wanted to. Aela and Farkas weren’t regarding him with the disapproving sneers he had feared and nearly expected, but instead had concerned expressions. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

And then his disaster scenario walked in. Traveler's’ cloak damp with melting snow, the newcomer entered through the doors and strode up to the bar. He’d know them anywhere, face covered or no. As they began to idly converse with the bartender while their drink was being prepared, they pushed back their rain-soaked hood to reveal deep maroon hair, grey-blue skin, and bright, mirthful red eyes. Their cheeks, nose, and tips of their ears, he noticed, had blushed a red-violet in the cold. Aela and Farkas followed his gaze, and were he paying attention he would’ve heard them say:

“You recognize them now?”

“Eh, sort of? You said it’s been twenty damn years.”

Niravas smiled as they made eye contact, as if they knew he was there from before the moment they walked into the tavern. Knowing them, however, they likely did. It wasn’t every day they decided to drink at the Mare rather than at the Drunken Huntsman with their mercenary friend. Stifling his own smile, he rose and made his way over to them.

“Hey, doll. Fancy catching you here,” They greeted.

He opened his mouth to retort, but, “And before you ask, yes, I loved the dagger. I’m almost afraid to use it; shame to damage a blade that pretty.”

Vilkas snorted, “It’s Skyforge Steel, it’s not fragile as any old weapon.”

“I do have to wonder, though,” They said almost wistfully, “How’d you know?”

“Know what?” That he’d noticed they lost their dagger?

“My name day,” They answered almost sheepishly, “I’ve not told anyone in decades.”

“Your name day? Did it really arrive on—”

“You didn’t know? Shit. Well, it did, and I promise you I’m not making this up.”

“Damn,” He said, mentally leafing through the implications of such a coincidence, “What year’ll it be?”

Niravas then donned an odd expression. Shit, was that too far?

“You don’t have to ans—”

“A hundred and fifty, I think.”

“Exactly?”

“Is it _199_?”

“Aye.”

“Then, exactly. Fuck, how time flies.”

Niravas didn’t talk for a moment after that, staring into their tankard with a crease in their brow of consternation.

“And what year are you?”

“Thirty-seven, now.”

“Gods,” They said, a shakiness to their tone, “And you look older’n me. Must really be true what they say, then.”

“What do they say?”

“‘Mortality weighs down strongly upon men’,” They quoted, almost solemnly.

They moved onto other topics after that, but the somber atmosphere never really dissipated entirely. He discussed some of his most recent contracts, and they vented a bit about some idiotic recruits and their hard-ass boss. Later, he even brought up that thief posing as a beggar who was better at taking things than they were at returning them. He could feel Aela and Farkas’ eyes on him throughout the evening, though they left about an hour before him and Niravas did. Still, however, they never really left. They were by then half-drunk: enough to realize the implications of what they were doing, but not give a shit about the consequences.

Come morn (or really the half-light of twilight), he awoke groggily. Shifting on the bed that he then remembered wasn’t his, the window allowed the sunrise to pour in. He could feel a weight beside him, pinning down part of the sheets and hindering him some as he rolled over. Niravas lay facing away from him on their side, dark red hair pooling outward. He took note of the various scars dividing the otherwise smooth, grey-blue flesh of their back and arms. Some were thin and white, others were darker in hue and more angry, as if they healed wrong. He—lightly as possible despite the bleary, heavy-handedness of morning—traced the largest one, slightly faded and tinted an odd shade of violet. In the imprint of a hand with a Daedric sigil inlaid in the palm, it looked to have been seared into their right shoulder-blade. He was too out of it to ask questions.

He eventually drifted back off into a comfortable, drowsy sleep, pulling the comforter that had been kicked off back over himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao sorry I'm a day late. I really need to start writing my update days into my calendar. _Anyways_ , after 30k+ it finally happened... sorta


	12. Prelude XII

_9th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

Niravas had finally made their way to Whiterun by late afternoon that day. They blearily awoke from their half-doze shortly before reaching their final destination. They opened their eyes to see the city

still carried that rustic beauty. The sun had just dipped below the towering horizon of the hillscape, giving the world a russet-gold hue. They pulled down the dark material of their hood, savoring a warm breeze that had just come in from the south. Their horse twitched her ears as she was ushered along a bit faster from the plodding she had been able to get away with while her rider was mostly asleep.

Niravas clutched their pack close to their chest, almost protective of the items it contained. It was neither picks nor gold (those they kept directly on their person), nor even the scant supplies left that they brought along for the week-long journey. No, it was something they were simultaneously afraid to ever use, but refused to let out of their sight. It was a gift from Nocturnal herself, the mantle of the Nightingales. Lady Luck’s favor was certainly something they would have to grow used to in the days to come.

There was a loose chatter in the air from the farmers and stable hands, a rhythmic chittering from the crickets in the grass, and a steady, thunderous thudding from the direction of Pelagia Farm. They frowned. Then other sounds: war cries from a handful of people, the thudding growing louder and quicker, and the distinct noise of steel hitting flesh. Suddenly quite awake now, they leapt from the back of the horse, landing on their feet with practiced ease. Pack over their shoulder, they made their way over to the area, rounding the farmhouse, only to see Aela, Farkas, and a figure they had never met before. And you know what they were doing? Fighting a giant. What was a giant doing in Whiterun? Oblivion if Niravas knew.

Arrows were fired quicker than the eye could see, and oversized swords swung at speeds that shouldn’t have been possible, ripping chunk after chunk of flesh from the giant’s form. Aela managed to turn at just the moment to catch Niravas’ approach, pausing in her movements just long enough for the giant to catch up. She dodged to the side in record time, barely avoiding being crushed into the earth by the massive, solid wood club. In a surge of panic, they tightened their pack across their back, letting go of the reins so the spooked beast could get to a safe distance. Drawing the blade at their hip, they ran in and slashed at its downturned arms as it raised its club once again, effectively allowing Aela to get at a range. Farkas and the unknown figure were still hacking at its legs from behind enough to keep it off balance. It was a wonder the thing managed to stay on its feet.

Aela, now far back from the fighting, drew her bow back with a steady hand, and aimed it skyward. The arrow was lofted forward at lightning speed, expertly striking the giant in its left eye, which popped with a sickly, wet sound. Only the fletching of the arrow extended out from the bloody socket, obviously breaking the minute barrier of bone between the eye and brain. The giant stood stock still for a long while, before its knees finally gave. It keeled over, one last thunderous crash into the ground, single eye once wide with pain and fear now lolled back in its head.

Aela then lowered her bow, and suddenly whipped around, “Well, look who’s finally back,” With a cold sort of fury.

“Nice to see you, too,” Niravas greeted with no small amount of sarcasm, as they retrieved their belongings.

Farkas nervously approached with the other woman, “Oh, um, hi? I don’t think we’ve really met.” He held out his hand.

Niravas took it, his grip almost uncomfortably strong, “Not properly anyhow. I’ve seen you around. Farkas, yeah? Niravas.”

“Who’s this?” Asked the unfamiliar face hovering in the background.

Aela scowled. “No one,” She said before turning on a heel and making her way back to town.

“Are you them?” She asked again tentatively.

“Am I who?”

“Aye, that’s them,” Farkas answered. “You’d better come along to Jorrvaskr, then.”

The walk back was awkward, to say the least. Whiterun seemingly hadn’t changed, the people hardily living out their mostly peaceful lives despite harsh weather and civil war. Children that had been playing in the streets were ushered back inside by parents warning of the coming dark, that it was time for bed. Shops were closing up, and jovial groups heading towards the taverns. Farkas had a troubled crease in his brow, and the other woman (whose name they still didn’t know) trailed along behind as if worried she was intruding on something.

Niravas looked to Farkas, and in a comparatively soft voice, “How’s he doing?”

“Well, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Listen, I’m not gonna blame you for leaving. I’m sure you had your reasons, but…”

And that’s what it all boiled down to, really. They _left_. They did have their reasons (and damned good ones, at that!), but that didn’t excuse abandoning this place without an explanation. They could have wrote, could have visited. Despite the chaos and turmoil, despite the betrayal, they would’ve been able to manage at least that, but instead they ran away from something twenty years in the making. Gods, what are they thinking? They should never have come back, it wasn’t worth it. Except, of course, it was.

The sturdy, solid wood doors creaked somewhat as they opened, revealing a Dunmeri man and a Nordic woman beating each other to bloody pulps just on the landing to the opposite side. Niravas looked around, nearly desperate for a familiar face amidst the commotion, only to find that the two Companions had vanished and all of Jorrvaskr was cheering and betting over the fight. They were at an absolute loss, but didn’t squander the opportunity to take a look at what they had to deal with. Aela had ended up over at one of the tables with a man with a mean scar across his eye (who they vaguely recognized), and they think they saw Farkas disappear out the back door, but Ria was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, the Nordic woman sent out a low kick, knocking the Dunmer right off his feet and sprawling to the ground. Niravas couldn’t help but to let out a “ _nice”_ because it really was just very underhanded and unsuspected of these proud warriors. The Dunmer seemed to notice quite the same thing, but felt a little more put out by it. Nira glanced over when they felt the trepidation of a hand just about to come into contact with them. A frail, but firm touch came into contact with their shoulder just as their eyes met those of an aging maid.

“You looking for something, dear? I’ve not seen you around here, and you look quite lost even to these old, blind eyes,” she questioned in a soothing, motherly tone.

“Ah well, yes, actually.” Here goes, they suppose, “D’you know where I can find Vilkas?”

Familiarity flickered across her eyes, “I see. He’s right this way down in the Harbinger’s quarters, come along.”

She waved them along and towards a staircase on the other side of the room. They descended and she led them to the right before knocking politely on a door at the far end. The door opened to reveal an older Nord. He was obviously weathered beyond his years, hair gone white before its time, but he was muscled and strong. Niravas definitely wouldn’t want to attempt to take him in a fight. He did, however, have a surprisingly kind face, a wise face. He smiled and ushered them in, as if knowing precisely why they were here. Odd, they didn’t generally have a very trustworthy look about them—doubly so since they accepted Nocturnal’s boon.

Inside was a rather homey looking sitting room, with a door to the side that they assumed led to a bedroom. A little table haphazardly had a few snacks and some wine and a couple of goblets strewn about it, along with a pair of chairs. Only one was empty. Vilkas jolted up, bumping the table in the process causing the wine to swish around in its bottle, a goblet falling on its side, and some crumbs being sent to the floor.

“Niravas,” He said, dumbfounded by their sudden appearance.

“Hey you,” They smiled warmly, “S’been a while.”

“So it has,” He murmured.

The man stepped forwards from where he had been leaning against the doorframe, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that a stranger had strode into his home. “So, I see there’s some history here,” He said in a tone that said he knew more than it appeared, “How about you introduce me, my boy, as you’re just a tad more familiar than I, it seems.”

He gestured to the man, “This is Kodlak, Harbinger of the Companions,” He then gestured to them, “And this is Niravas, a—” He struggled for a moment on how to define them, “An old friend.”

Kodlak’s eyebrows shot up, “Really now? Come forth, Niravas; let me get a look at you.”

They stepped forward with cautious, semi-sure footsteps, then bent downwards just a bit so they could look him dead in the eyes from his position in the chair. His steely grey gaze seemed to be analyzing Niravas’ very soul through the Dunmeri crimson. And yet he smiled. That was good, right? Right.

“Hm, a strong soul. You’ve got more honor than you’d think.”

Honor? Like they knew the first thing about it. Fine, there might be a fair bit of honor in risking your life for the people you’ve worked with for the past few decades, to seek out the truth and dare speak against a traitor, but that didn’t mean anything. If they hadn’t done so, then the whole outfit would’ve continued going to shit, and they would’ve been out of a job. It was well paying, they were good at it, and they liked doing it. They’d be damned if they let _Mercer_ of all people fuck that up.

They shook their head, no, and straightened, “I didn’t come here to join you.”

“You didn’t, did you? No, you came here for other reasons,” He said, nudging Vilkas. “Go along then.”

He then ushered them out of his quarters, leaving Niravas and Vilkas standing there awkwardly in the hallway. It was difficult for them to meet his gaze. They hadn’t felt this guilty in a long time, and it definitely showed. Their usual suave charisma was now all but nonexistent. For a rare moment, they were speechless, unable to articulate what they wanted to say or even construct some bizzare distraction.

“What are you doing here?” Vilkas said, almost coldly.

“I…” They began, pittering off, “You know? I’ve no fucking clue. Everything’s just been…”

His previous low anger then simmered out, and he donned a curious expression, “You could’ve at least wrote.”

“Aye,” They agreed, ”I could’ve.”

“So why didn’t you?”

They opened their mouth to say something, but closed it when they met his gaze.

“At least tell me why you left. Did something happen?” The _‘did I do something?’_ was left unspoken.

They tensed, and nearly turned to leave. Just thinking of the barest details of all that happened hurt. “No,” They answered simply, a wordless _‘It wasn’t you’_.

“Then what?” He whispered.

“I fucked up. I knew something was going on, but I couldn’t—I didn’t…” They sighed, “Listen, I think it’s best if I just go.”

He didn’t stop them.

* * *

 

Niravas disappearing for long periods of time was never really odd. They had responsibilities outside of Whiterun, and Vilkas understood that. Really, he did, but this? Over a year and a half with no word? If he thought those two weeks between sending the gift and them arriving were bad, his worry was multiplied by the dozens. Even if he never saw them for months at a time, he at least saw the occasional evidence of their presence, like when an almost artful burglary was reported with nothing left behind. He had gotten so used to seeing hooded figures in his peripheries when walking out too late at night, that it was almost disturbing to notice their absence.

He often found himself thinking back on that night in the Mare. By the time he had woken up the second time that morning, he was blearily aware of the shuffling of sheets and clothes, and the soft clicking of the door. When he awoke a third time, the spot where they had lain was only slightly warm. Afterwards, nothing really changed, though not that he’d really expect it to. It was just a fling, made slightly awkward by the fact that they were neither complete strangers nor particularly close. They left suddenly, however, only a week or so after everything had gone back to normal.

For a month or two, he didn’t worry—not truly, anyhow. He had no reason to. Niravas was a grown adult and were more than capable of taking care of themself. Not to mention, they weren’t close enough that it was any of his business. Well, not unless they posed a danger to anyone, but he wasn’t worried about that. They made it clear that they had no desire to steal from those who couldn’t afford it, as it wouldn’t fruit the same worth and satisfaction as stealing from the rich. Maybe not the most noble of reasons, but he wasn’t quite sure what he expected on that front. He was also sure the only ones they would be outright attacking probably deserved it. It was almost startling to realize that he now had very few qualms regarding their profession.

After winter and half of spring had passed, his concern began in earnest. Thieves Guild activity had been on the decline for decades, but it was as if it stopped altogether. He wasn’t sure about the other provinces, but whenever a contract took him outside of Whiterun, he noticed the same thing. Even when he managed to convince Kodlak to assign him a job in Riften, it was as if the city of thieves had been robbed of its moniker. It was still seedy as can be of course, but the crime was more chaotic, less organized. He didn’t see hide nor hair of anyone obviously Guild, not Niravas or even that woman with the astonishingly blue eyes, Sapphire, he met at the tavern.

It was about midsummer by the time he had conceded to giving up hope. He had, at this point, come to the conclusion that the Guild’s reign was over, and that Niravas wouldn’t be coming back. Whether this be because they died or had gone into hiding, he didn’t know. The only thing he did know on the matter was that it didn’t do dwelling upon.

It wasn’t until well into Hearthfire that he heard anything closely resembling hopeful news. The Guild seemingly rose from the ashes, cockier than ever. The richest half of the province—those scarcely inconvenience by the strife that plagued the rest—were now missing half their wealth. Beggars on the streets looked a little less thin, less downtrodden. Still, however, no sign of trailing hooded figures or that ophidian grin.

Other things happened, little things that proved that life was moving on—with or without him. Hefke, the court wizard, unfortunately passed. Old age, apparently, had gotten her in the end, and Farengar dutifully took over. A few new whelps joined up with the Companions, two of which proved quite promising. One of them, (“Ria”, she said her name was), took to him despite his surly, antisocial nature. He became a mentor of sorts to her, and for a little while he forgot why he had been so upset. Later in Rain’s Hand, the Gildergreen wilted in a grand strike of lightning, and Kyne’s devouts fasted for two weeks.

He was moving on _dammit_ , then suddenly Niravas just appears out of nowhere, picked up by Aela on their way into town, traipsing in as if they never left. Ria was there too, says the thief is quite charming all, things considered, and she doesn’t understand why that irks him. He wants to be angry, nearly feels he has a right to be after they didn’t even bother to write. After they ran off all in a hurry, was he supposed to assume that everything was okay? That they weren’t dead in a gutter somewhere because they finally bit off more than they could chew? Seeing them now, though, he doesn’t have it in him to be angry.

 _Something_ obviously happened, and if their demeanor was anything to go by, it must’ve been quite the ordeal. They looked more tired, world-weary almost. It also didn’t escape his notice that their armor was just a bit different. The leather was darker, finer, the stitching smaller and much more careful. It was obviously loads more expensive, both figuratively and literally. They left shortly after that meeting, gone off to wherever they stayed while in the city, and he was stuck between showing them the door and locking it before they could vanish again.

“That was them, then?” Kodlak has asked after they left, “The infamous thief that’s kept your attention all these years?”

“The one and only,” Vilkas answered.

“I must say, I’m not sure what to think of them.”

“You’re not the only one, trust me.”

“On the one hand, there’s hardly an ounce of real malice about them, but on the other…”

“I know.”

It went unsaid how unnerving they could be, silent footsteps and a too-perceptive gaze. They talked a little more after that, until finally Kodlak announced that it was time to retire. Being in the basement, neither could outright see the sky, but they knew the moons were reaching their apex. Vilkas wasn’t of a mind to sleep just then, and he ended up spending the majority of the night just staring at the ceiling. He had a million questions, and he had hoped that their return would answer them, but it just brought in a million more.

He finally fell asleep in when the rest of Jorrvaskr began to wake up, exhaustion and the familiar sounds of the mead hall above lulling him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright readers, if any of you have been paying attention to the dates, you might recognize that the time of the main quest is coming up. That's right, we've finally finished up the prelude! I briefly considered a very short hiatus in between parts, but this update schedule is slow enough that I've managed to keep up pretty well, so expect chapter one of part two to be up in a couple weeks


	13. Kismet I

_10th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

Awakening in their old safehouse, Niravas almost thought they were still dreaming. This cramped little pile made up of more blankets than they knew what to do with was _not_ the brand new bed purchased not a year ago with their now-overabundance of funds. After shit hit the fan, they had taken up residence in Mercer’s old room. All of the furnishings and decor were new, as they had tossed everything the traitor owned. It took some convincing from Brynjolf not to torch the whole room right then and there.

They lay there for a while, just basking in the familiarity of it all and pretending the past year hadn’t happened and a goddess didn’t own their soul. Attempting to rise, however, wrought a pain less emotional in nature and more immediate. Even just shifting slightly to roll over, it felt as if their brain was sloshing about in their skull, throbbing painfully. Their mouth was uncomfortably dry and tasted like something had died. Ah, that’s right, they had gone out after visiting Jorrvaskr. They had partaken _far_ more than usual, but Jenassa had insisted and, they supposed, there was cause to celebrate.

Walking the streets of Whiterun once more had been nothing short of surreal. It truly felt as if this past year had just been a grand illusion. They were bombarded with a sense of nostalgia they usually only felt during their first few years in the Guild, when Gallus was still around. The only things that had notably changed was the bare boughs of the sacred tree in the middle of town, bark scorched by flame and looked upon forlornly by Kyne’s devout.

Even the Drunken Huntsman hadn’t changed, every face a one they recognized (most sloshed out of their minds). Elrindir gave them a nod in greeting from behind the counter, as if they’d never left at all. Jenassa, however, was never one to handle something like this with grace. They supposed that was the difference between a thief and a mercenary: one had a temper. She shot up out of her seat, jostling the table and her drink on it. The chair fell backwards, making a disproportionately loud noise thanks to the small interior of the tavern.

“Where in the blessed _fuck_ have you been?”

They sighed, “That’s a long story, Jen.”

“Go on then,” She said, righting her chair and plopping down in it, “I’ve got time.”

Pulling out the chair opposite, they also took a seat and gratefully accepted the tankard Elrindir began to prepare the moment they walked in. Neither him nor Jenassa even blinked as they downed it in a matter of seconds. The Bosmer took the tankard back to refill it with a soft laugh. This behavior was not too unusual.

“I still don’t think I’m drunk enough to explain this bullshit,” They said, considering for a moment to steal Jenassa’s own half-empty drink.

“I don’t care,” She rebutted, clutching the tankard close upon seeing their gaze upon it. “You can’t just up and ditch people like that.”

“Fine, just… gimme a moment.”

It was quiet for a long moment as they composed themself, and thankfully, Jenassa gave them that moment.

They started with Gallus. This wasn’t a new story to Jenassa, only a version of it not clouded by Mercer’s lies. They had never really admitted before how far the Guild had fallen, but now that they knew it was at the behest of an angry god, they weren’t really surprised. It explained how the once proud association lost almost all of their assets, control over the province slipping into non-existence. Near the end, even the beggars and prostitutes that acted as their eyes and ears began to give them false information, or refused to cooperate at all in retribution for their sudden drop in pay.

They chose their words delicately, never telling a lie (Jenassa deserved that much), but not revealing the full picture either. It wasn’t worth mentioning that the Guild found itself in shambles all because one idiot had to go piss off their patron. Extorting money and blaming the knife in his predecessor’s back on his lover was enough. Besides, if no one in the Guild was aware of the Nightingales, then what guarantee do they have that it was a good idea to tell Jenassa—her being one of their oldest friends be damned?

Translating Gallus’ journal to get the proof they needed to oust Mercer (as apparently the stab wound in their side wouldn’t cut it) took an age and a half. Tracking down the traitor himself took even longer. He drowned in those caves, Karliah made sure of it, whether it be from blood in his punctured lung or the cavern slowly filling with water. Niravas had barely managed to locate an exit; they three very nearly meeting a similar fate. Brynjolf had to aid Karliah as they escaped, as she bore her own wounds.

“Well, shit,” Jenassa said simply, breaking the silence left in the wake of Niravas’ account.

“That’s one way to put it. I’ve spent the last year just… picking up, I guess.”

“Well, you did a damned good job. People are actually scared of you lot again.”

They shrugged, “I suppose.”

The rest of the night they spent in a drunken stupor. Jenassa revealed she would be out on contract for the next couple weeks, and this would be her last chance to get blackout drunk for awhile. It was at this point that she decided they needed something a bit stronger than mead. What was originally merely a way to catch up with Jenassa soon became a sort of pseudo-celebration. It was almost like congratulations for getting the Guild back on its feet and a reprieve from spending the last year dragging their reputation back out of the mud.

Luckily they were a trained professional who knew their own limits, and were able to get back to the safehouse with minimal difficulty. Or that’s what they told themself, as in actuality, they scarcely remembered much after that first bottle had been downed.

* * *

 

_15th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

Vilkas entered the Drunken Huntsman early in the morning. Many of its patrons were absent or were slumped over in an alcohol-induced slumber. Unfortunately, the people he sought were among the former category. He noted, somewhat amusingly, one of the latter nearly fall flat on their ass trying to exit the establishment. Vilkas turned to the Bosmer who ran the counter, who had been idly fletching an arrow before Vilkas arrived. He likely recognized his status as a Companion, and shifted uncomfortably.

“You know the pair of Dunmer that frequent this place?” He pointed. “Usually sit over there?”

The Bosmer shifted to see where he gestured to, before snapping his fingers in recognition “Oh, you mean the merc and the thief.”

“Aye,” He answered simply, deciding not to question his knowing of their professions and not reporting it, “I need to locate the thief.”

He cursed under his breath, “Y’ffre sake, how should I know? Haven’t been in for a few days.”

“A few days?” Vilkas questioned, vaguely aware of one of the patrons drunkenly stumbling their way out the door.

“Closer to a week, really, but it’s not like they’re in every night.”

He obviously wasn’t up for talking, then. Vilkas huffed, but ultimately decided that this place was a dead end. He didn’t blame him for not wanting to give away one of his regulars, especially one of the newly resurrected organization. In fact, this establishment was more than likely frequented (if not outright _owned_ ) by the newly restored Guild. He briskly thanked the mer and left, and he seemed happy to see him leave.

Vilkas then turned to combing the streets, his first and only lead a bust. He chatted with some of the stall vendors and guards for a bit, but ultimately was no closer to finding Niravas than when he started. Why is it that when he actually needs to find them, they all but vanish? Surely they couldn’t have gone back to the Guild after less than a week. He wasn’t exactly expecting they’d stay for a month or more like they had previously, but still.

After about an hour with no luck, he turned back to Jorrvaskr, only to be stopped dead in his tracks. Leaning against the wall next to the doors was a familiar hooded figure. The early morning sun cast a shadow over the west-facing entrance, obscuring their features. It didn’t help that they were wearing a hood. That had no bearing on his ability to recognize them, however, he was certain of it. It was all in their posture, and—if he still wasn’t sure—their scent. If he had to put a name to it, he’d say copper and smoke, but that wasn’t quite right. Either way, their presence was unmistakable.

“Alright, what’d you want?” They asked irately.

“A ‘hello’ would be nice.”

“Someone woke me up in the middle of the damned day saying you asked for me, so let’s skip the pleasantries. I’d like to get back to bed.”

This was accentuated by a stifled yawn. Now that he was closer and could see their face properly, he could indeed make out the dark circles that were beginning to form under their eyes. He’d suffered countless sleepless nights thanks to his nature; he could relate. But as to how they knew he’d been looking for them, well at least it explained the seemingly drunk patron who left the Huntsman almost as soon as he’d arrived.

“Kodlak wants to see you,” He said simply, not finding it worth it to verbally spar someone who’s half-awake and not happy about it.

“Again? What for?”

“He didn’t say,” Vilkas shrugged.

Niravas, already quite put off by the situation, made to go back down the stairs without a word. Vilkas started after them, putting a hand on their shoulder.

“Just,” He sighed, unsure what could convince them, “See what he has to say?”

Niravas shrugged off his hand, “If it’ll get you off my back about this, fine.”

Jorrvaskr wasn’t quite awake either. A few people were up and about in the training yard, the clashing of steel audible from outside. Most, however, were at the tables stuffing their faces or nursing tankards filled with mead or coffee. A good majority of them turned and (not so) discreetly stared as Vilkas entered with this stranger a second time. While they outwardly seemed unperturbed by it all, Niravas’ ears twitched nervously as they passed through the main hall. Tilma gave them a nervous smile from where she was.

Downstairs was easier, as almost no one was down there aside from a trio of whelps passed out in their beds after getting home late from a contract the previous evening. When they came across Kodlak’s quarters at the end of the hall, the door was already slightly ajar. He stood at his desk intensely studying a particular parchment he held. Beside him was an envelope with the red wax seal broken.

“Finally,” Kodlak exclaimed, a rare note of apprehension in his voice, “You’ve arrived.”

“My,” Niravas remarks almost nonchalantly, “This must be quite severe if _I’m_ the one being called in.”

“More so than you know,” Kodlak replied, almost forlornly, “But you were asked for by name.”

Vilkas merely shrugged when Niravas gave him a perplexed look. He knew no more about this than they. Niravas shrugged off the initial surprise of such a revelation with ease, raising a brow in a wordless ‘so?’

“You’ll be getting paid,” He said in a deadpan.

He then proceeded to drag out a goodly sized coin purse from under his desk. It settled with a series of metallic clinks, little circles indenting through the burlap. It didn’t escape Vilkas’ notice that Niravas seemed to be fixated on it, their ears perking up.

“This is half,” Kodlak elaborated. “The rest is to be delivered upon your return.”

“What is that?!” They exclaimed in barely concealed excitement, “A thousand? Two?”

“Five if you count the precious gems.”

Niravas muttered an oath in what must’ve been Dunmeris, and he didn’t blame them. Vilkas himself stood agape. _Ten thousand septims_. They only tore their gaze away from the pouch when Vilkas recovered himself, and finally broke the silence he’d been keeping since the Harbinger and thief began conversing.

“Delivered from who?”

Kodlak swallowed hard, hand crinkling the paper in his grasp. Vilkas had never seen him like this before. All the time he had known him, Kodlak was never afraid—not visibly, anyhow. Just the sight of one of the absolutes in his life faltering in such a way was getting under Vilkas’ skin. Realistically, he knew the Harbinger was only a man, but to see that be proven first-hand (at something so seemingly mundane, at that!) was quite another beast entirely.

“You gonna at least tell us what job’s worth this sort of coin?”

“It’s a contract for…” He faltered,” Well, it’s for a dragon.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Niravas intoned.

“This is the emergency?” Vilkas said, incredulous.

“Just trust me in knowing that the situation is indeed dire.”

“Mas—Kodlak,” Vilkas began, “I _do_ trust you, but are you sure this is wise? It sounds like some eccentric trap.”

“I hope to the Nine it’s not, my lad, but I’m afraid we’ve little choice in the matter.”

“Wait, ‘completed on our return’? Or d'you mean our _successful_ return?” Niravas piped up, “Is this person aware that dragons’ve been extinct for, well, a _while_ now?”

“I cannot say,” Kodlak admitted, brows creasing, “They seemed so sure you’d succeed.”

“Well,” Niravas announced, “I’m in. I’ll be here, what, tomorrow? Then we can go.”

Vilkas blinked. He thought he’d have a week ahead of just convincing them to at least look into the matter.

“That was fast.”

“Well, so long as I get half of what’s in that pouch right now.”

“Ah,” There it is.

Kodlak heaved a sigh, but reached for the coin to count out the proper amount without arguing.

They grinned, a certain gleam in their eyes. “Gods, I’ve needed a vacation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally starting on the main quest! Also, I set up a reminder system, so No More Forgetting Updates for me... Probably.


	14. Kismet II

_16th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

Niravas awoke begrudgingly the next morning, having suddenly had to adjust their sleeping schedule to something more diurnal. They lay there for several moments, curled up in a myriad of different blankets before ultimately deciding that if they didn’t get up that instant, they wouldn’t be getting up at all. After dressing, collecting their belongings, and finally exiting the little hovel claimed as a safehouse, they winced in the early morning daylight. It had been quite some time since they actually had to bear the day from dawn until dusk, rather than vice versa.

They trudged over to Jorrvaskr, exhausted and extremely put out by the whole situation. They supposed, however, that ten thousand drakes was worth it, even if the Companions would be getting half. After all, they had done far more for much less in the past. It was a quaint feeling to see everyone begin their days so early, to watch the bustle as people made their way to wherever they spent their days. Niravas couldn’t say they had ever really witnessed this before, having never paid attention even when they had need to be out and about at the same time as the general populace.

Jorrvaskr proved to be just as lively as the rest of Whiterun, the sounds of clashing steel and battle cries so audible that it couldn’t have come from inside. The training yard, then. They had never seen it themself, but after twenty years of basically living in this town, it was impossible not to know the exact layout of nearly everything in Whiterun. They rounded the building to see a number of the Companions out practicing their skills.

It wasn’t difficult to locate the man of the hour. Vilkas sat on top of one of the tables, bedecked in traveling gear with a pack resting—amusingly enough—on the bench next to him. His attention was focused on Ria, who was sparring with Farkas. Vilkas would occasionally shout out criticisms and corrections, and even a few praises. Niravas had to conclude that she was, indeed, a skilled warrior, but she still had a long ways to go before she could measure up to what little they had seen of her peers in battle.

They approached, leaning against the table. “Hey, doll.”

Vilkas jumped, but sighed and quickly composed himself, “You should’ve been here an hour ago.”

They rolled their eyes, “Well, excuse me for not being much of a morning person.”

By this point, a few of the others took note of their presence. Even after a few minutes of discussing some of their more last minute travel plans, Tilma came out with a cup of coffee. Niravas, embarrassingly enough, had blurted out an “I love you” before snatching the drink. She chuckled before returning to her duties inside the mead hall. Vilkas had an amused expression, but ultimately said nothing (especially after Niravas glared at him, _daring_ him to say a word).

“Come on, we need to get going. You have a horse stabled outside the city, don’t you?”

“Aye, but gimme a mo’,” They replied, attempting to sip the scalding liquid just a bit faster.

“We’re losing daylight, come on.”

“There’s plenty of daylight,” They insisted, “S'the asscrack of dawn!”

Vilkas merely collected his pack, “I’m gonna leave you here.”

“Fine,” They grumbled, draining the rest of the mug in a single gulp out of some odd sense of spite, scalding their tongue and throat in the process.

Shortly afterwards, they were at the stables, where Niravas collected the mare they had left upon their arrival to the city. She was young and light on her feet, smaller than most of the others in the stable. Niravas had worried over her for a moment, but decided that if she had fared so well on a week-long journey that another two days wouldn’t hurt her. Besides, the stablemaster had treated her well, and she was ready to be out and about. Vilkas himself had his own mare, though of much greater strength and bulk to hold heavy arms and armor. Older, muscular, and beholden of a rather curious sort of temper, she was a warhorse through and through.

They had been instructed to begin their search in a certain town that lay deep in the Jerall Mountains, to the south of Whiterun. They regularly traveled to and from Riften, used to long days of travel to the point of it being ridiculous. Considering Vilkas’ line of work, they assumed he was in the same boat. They quickly spanned the vast plains of Whiterun hold, Niravas’ mare skipping ahead merrily as she was happy to no longer be cooped up.

Nearing the end of that first day, they reached the small logging village of Riverwood. And calling it “small” was not an understatement. Niravas doubted more than twenty people lived there, and yet they somehow had a blacksmith, tavern, and general store. At least the lumber mill made sense, as they would be able to ship their goods throughout the province, but how did those other places stay afloat? Guess this place had a lot more travelers coming through than it seemed.

They stayed at a place called the Sleeping Giant Inn, despite the fact that it’s proprietor made Niravas feel uneasy. They couldn’t quite place what it was, but she certainly wasn’t a simple innkeeper. They were terrible at gauging human ages, but she was certainly in her older years, (not nearly enough to be considered elderly, but still). She walked like a proud warrior, (a veteran mostly likely) and Niravas would be blind not to notice the shortsword concealed in her skirts.

Niravas and Vilkas left early the next morning. The road afterwards was all mountain, the vast plains of Whiterun Hold behind them.

“We’ll need to be careful,” Vilkas announced as the ground beneath them began to slope upwards, “Watch out for storms and the like.”

“What for?”

“Winters come early up this high, and trust me when I say you _don’t_ want to winter in the Jerall.”

They snorted, “Winters come early here no matter the altitude. It was so cold last week I’m surprised that rain wasn’t snow.”

They rounded a corner and were suddenly blasted by a mountain gale when not behind the cover of stone. Niravas visibly shivered, clenching their jaw to stifle chattering teeth. They pulled their hood farther over their face, ears twitching as the cold bit into them. Surprisingly enough, they hadn’t really experienced all that Skyrim’s harsh winters had to offer, not really anyways. Riften was near enough to the border that it wasn’t so bad. Occasionally, they got snowed in while working in Whiterun, but a round of drinks and good company goes a long way for keeping out the cold.

“Cold?” Vilkas asked in an amused tone.

Of course he had noticed. “Shut up.”

“Shouldn’t you be used to this sort of weather by now?”

“It doesn’t get this cold in Riften, and besides, I’m from fucking Vvardenfell! I bet you’d be dying in the heat and humidity of that place.”

He merely shrugged, not disputing the comment, but not outright agreeing either. Niravas was sure that he wouldn’t be laughing were they in Morrowind, especially around the coast. The air in Skyrim was frigid and dry, to the point that Niravas had to pay special care lest their hair crack and break. It was a wonder so many Nords were able to keep longer styles, but they were built for it, they supposed.

They rode throughout most of the day once more, reaching Helgen a few hours or so past noon. Despite it only being of moderate population, it still had a wall and a sizable keep. Its sturdy build reminded Niravas of Ebonheart, in a way. It was under heavy Imperial control, and had twice as many guards than would ever be seen in any other city, each decked out in Imperial regalia. The border being just to the south, this was likely a major strategic standpoint.

After leaving their horses at the stable outside the main gate, they managed to locate a small tavern in the middle of town, which contained a number of said guards. They weren’t in uniform or anything, but drunkenness still doesn’t do much for hiding the telltale signs of a military life. There was just something about their speech, their mannerisms that just screamed “soldier”. It was in the way they walked, how they addressed others, whether it be fellow or commoner.

They both ended up spending a few hours or so down in the tavern, but resisted drinking too much. Niravas chatted idly with a few of the patrons, drifting towards the ones who had fallen deeper into their cups. Drunkards were always the best for gathering information; after all, they had little to no filter. It wasn’t too long until the weariness from travel caught up with them—especially as dusk began to set in.

“Alright, I’m gonna change then go back down,” Niravas announced as soon as they settled in their room.

“What? Aren’t you exhausted?”

“I’m a night owl,” They shrugged, “And besides, a few more drinks is just the thing to warm me up. I still can’t feel my fingers.”

“Maybe you should’ve worn gloves.”

“I did!” “Those have the fingers cut off.”

“Of course! D'you know how hard it is to pick locks in full gloves?”

“Why do you need to pick any locks at all? Besides, you could just take them off if you did!”

They responded by simply throwing their shirt in his face.

* * *

 

_18th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

Vilkas had settled into sleep shortly after setting his bags down in the room they had rented at that small inn. He was almost surprised they could get a room in the first place considering how busy it was, but, he supposed, most of its patrons were soldiers that slept in the barracks anyhow. He was briefly awoken some time in the very early morning—before the sun could even peak through the curtains—by the door briefly opening then closing again. He was vaguely aware of another person shuffling over, and falling into the opposite side of the bed before he drifted off again. Usually, he’d at least have opened his eyes, but travel had all but trampled his constant restlessness. He didn’t wake up again until morning by some commotion outside.

He rose and threw on the clothes he had from the night before. As he was leaving the room, a _sound_ echoed throughout the building. It managed to be shrieking but thunderous at the same time, shaking the ground below him in a low bass, but making him wince due to the high pitch. What in the actual fuck? He rushed outside without a second thought to see all eyes on a group of what had to be Stormcloaks all bound and at the mercy of the Imperial guards. A chopping block stood in front of them, executioner wielding a bloody greataxe.

A man stood in front of them all, a quill and clipboard in hand as he read out names. He seemed sad, in a way. Niravas stood near the edge of the crowd that had surrounded the Stormcloaks, but their gaze was fixed on the sky. They looked frazzled, nervous in a way he hadn’t quite seen before. They were once more bundled up in warmer clothes for traveling, and held both of their packs. Vilkas blinked; he hadn’t even noticed they were gone.

“Shit. What…” He swallowed, ”What’d I miss?”

“Uh… Well, that one,” They said gesturing to a headless corpse next to the block, “Willingly went up after insulting the priestess.”

Damn Stormcloaks, prideful to a fault. Dying for a cause was one thing, but… Kodlak was right: this war is tearing Skyrim apart. Families would never be whole again, whether it be because of death or that they each took different sides. Vilkas himself had lost much to this war, one that began when he was only a child. At least back then, it was to fight off the Thalmor who instigated it all. Now, however, it’s an internal strife, one that threatens to either divide their province right down the middle or slaughter the losing party. Vilkas stared at the soldiers who were now to be put to death, their backs to him as they bravely faced the executioner’s block.

The sound pierced the air once more, and Niravas gripped the straps of their packs until their knuckles went white. Vilkas himself had followed their gaze up in the clouds.

“Vilkas, we need to leave,” They said with a certain urgency that had Vilkas’ hairs standing on end.

“What do you mean? Niravas, what’s going on here?”

“Something’s wrong,” They prompted, “We have to go _now_.”

Vilkas was distracted for a moment, racing thoughts of this nation just as doomed as those soldiers dashed from attention. He wanted to ask for clarification. What could that mean “something’s wrong”? But he knew all too well. He felt it too, the air crackling with raw _danger_. This gut-feeling was proven right just as one of the keep’s towers shuddered with the weight of a massive beast landing atop it. Its eyes were like dying embers and Vilkas would’ve said its scales glittered prettily in the dawn light were it not for the gravity of the situation.

It was something out of legend: a dragon roaring out with that terrible sound.

Waves of clouds then appeared, raining down flames and boulders upon the execution ground. It flew off just as Niravas dragged Vilkas over to that self same tower, the only building spared from the attack as it had been used as the beast’s perch. Others also had quite the same idea, swarms of people taking refuge in the last building standing.

“Jarl Ulfric!” A Stormcloak shouted, “What is that thing? Could the legends be true?”

Ulfric? Vilkas turned, and—lo and behold—there stood Ulfric Stormcloak himself. Despite obviously in dire straights after being captured and nearly executed, he was just as proud in person as all the stories said. He stood tall as if the nightmares that had plagued all of Nirn for generations hadn’t just razed an entire fortified town to the ground in mere minutes.

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” He snarled. Another roar was heard from outside, above the screams of terror from the villagers, “We need to move. Now!”

The soldier glanced at the stairs behind him, “Up through the tower, let’s go!”

So they did, as it seemed to be the best plan, despite the fact that no one really knew what they would do once they reached the top. Vilkas relieved Niravas from the burden of his own pack that they had grabbed, taking it from them as they ascended the tower. One of the soldiers attempted to remove some of the rubble in the way, but was assaulted by a barrage of stone and killed instantly. The dragon had burst through the tower, and unleashing a torrent of flame into it as if trying to cook them all alive. It flew away shortly after, and the survivors took this chance to jump through the gaping hole in the tower left in the wake of the dragon’s fury. Vilkas was just about to follow when he noticed Niravas staring after the dragon as it flew, frozen in place.

“Did you hear that?” They whispered, almost dazed, “They said something…”

“Come on!” He said, pulling them along, “Do you have a deathwish?”

That seemed to get them to shrug off the shock of whatever had just happened. They leapt, landed almost effortlessly in the burning remains of the tavern. Vilkas had a bit more difficulty, but landed without injury, (though the structure did shake with the force of it). He was almost vaguely aware that this had been their rented room.

“With me!” Shouted an Imperial officer

Vilkas recognized as the same one who had been listing off names for the execution. He remembered seeing the remorse in his eyes as he had read out each name. Currently, he was doing everything in his power to make sure everyone went ahead of him, gathering every soul he could. He didn’t discriminate between his fellows, mere villagers, or even the Stormcloaks, genuinely just wanting to save as many lives as possible. He even instructed one of the citizens to keep a close eye on a small boy who had been cowering near him. The officer looked haggard and weary, and the tears in his eyes as he scanned each mangled body was not only due to the smoke in the air. A soldier’s life was not for someone as kind hearted as he.

“Stay close to the wall!” He shouted just before the dragon landed and released yet another burst of fire.

Everyone then plastered themselves to the stone wall in a desperate attempt to survive. By the grace of the Divines, the dragon didn’t notice them, swooping right by without a thought. In a blind rush through the burning village as it was burned to the ground, many of the villagers either made a break for a new hiding spot or were crushed by the avalanche that came from the very clouds. It was just the three of them, Vilkas, Niravas, and that officer by the time they had paused.

One of the Stormcloaks then dashed before them, snatching up a blade that lay next to a fallen Imperial soldier and cutting the ropes that still bound his hands. He looked up with defiance as soon as he heard the officer’s armor clanking as he ran up, but froze as they made eye contact.

“Ralof, you damned traitor. Out of my way!” the officer screamed in rage.

“We’re escaping, Hadvar,” Ralof explained, his voice laced with a touch grief, “You’re not stopping us this time.”

Hadvar stood his ground, but eventually broke Ralof’s gaze, “Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde.”

“No,” Vilkas insisted, “We’ll all die if we bicker like this. Everyone into the keep!” and he grabbed hold of both of them, Niravas trailing behind as they watched the dragon circle the carnage it wrought.

The interior of the keep was an absolute fucking state. It was dank, musty, and the stone walls were lined with moss. There were a pair of iron-bar doors leading deeper into the structure, and the walls were lined with a series of wooden chests. To one corner, there was a table and some chairs lit by a stand of candles. Vilkas chose a door at random, but it rang out with a _clank_ as the lock caught. He went to the other but with the same results, prompting Niravas to kneel down to have a look at the lock.

They clicked their tongue in irritation. “Fucking rust.”

“Gods above…” Hadvar suddenly gasped, pulling Vilkas’ attention away.

He moved to inspect a lump covered in straw and shoved haphazardly underneath the table. Ralof made his way over as well, muttering an oath under his breath upon realizing just what that lump was. Hadvar was already in the process of closing the dead Stormcloak’s wide-open eyes, whispering over him for a moment or two.

“Did you—”

“Know him?” Ralof finished, “Aye, that was Gunjar. Good man.”

The lock clicking open interrupted them and Niravas disappeared into the doorway, urging everyone along. As they walked through the cramped hallways, the atmosphere had grown quite tense, uncomfortably so now that they were away from the immediate threat. They only occasionally heard the faint roaring of that great beast. After a time, they finally reached the barracks proper. It contained a series of beds, each with a wooden chest at the foot.

“You should put on your armor,” Niravas advised, gesturing to Vilkas’ pack, “If that dragon comes back, we’ll need it.”

He hummed in agreement. As they both went off to opposite corners of the room to don their armor, Hadvar murmured, awkwardly walking up to Ralof.

“Here,” he said before shoving a sword into Ralof’s hands, “I know you prefer axes, but the Imperial army doesn’t supply them.”

Ralof stared down at the sword, “...Thank you,” he finally said.

Hadvar nodded, opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. There was nothing to say—not anymore. Vilkas took a little while longer to don his armor than it did Niravas, as it was much more complicated. When Vilkas was finished with the numerous buckles that held his armor in place, he turned to see that Niravas had donned in the darkest leathers he had ever seen. It made them melt into the shadows in a way he hadn’t quite seen before, absorbing so much light that it didn’t even shine despite obviously being quality leather. It was almost hard to look at to the point that Vilkas barely registered that they had pocketed a coinpurse that had been lying on a table.

“Really?” He said.

“Who’s coming back for it?”

He didn’t push it, as now wasn’t the time for an argument.

Just as they were about to open a wooden gate to continue along, they heard voices on the other side. It opened before them, revealing a pair of Stormcloaks. Upon seeing Hadvar, they drew their weapons and made to rush forward. They only calmed when Ralof, in his Stormcloak armor, pushed past Hadvar.

Hands raised to signal peace, Ralof spoke, “My shield-siblings, please!”

“Ralof?” One exclaimed, “What are you doing here with one of those Imperial dogs?”

“He’s with me,” He said looking back to Hadvar, “And we need to get out of here before that dragon brings the keep down on our heads!”

“And what about you, Companions?” They said, staring at the wolf imprint on Vilkas’ armor.

“Just passing through,” Niravas answered, noting that the soldier seemed to assume they were of Jorrvaskr’s ranks as well. The Stormcloak scoffed, obviously, “Well, you picked a pretty shitty time to ‘pass through’.”

To say the least, the two Stormcloak soldiers were not pleased at Hadvar’s presence, and were even less so when he led the way. They went down a winding staircase, but just as they reached the final step, the hallway in front of them collapsed, and the haunting roar of the dragon sounded. This forced them to enter a side room where two more Stormcloaks resided. With a little more convincing from Ralof, they cooperated knowing the dragon was a far greater threat.

It was only until they descended down yet another staircase that their delicate alliance was tested. They happened upon what could only be the torture room, floor covered in blood both old and fresh that had been caked upon the ground. Bodies had been left to rot in cells and cages strung to the ceiling. Another couple of Stormcloaks stood over the bodies of two Imperials Hadvar identified as the torturer and his assistant.

“Never cared much for them anyways,” he said simply.

The Stormcloaks who had previously been prepared for him to turn on them at the murder of his fellows, lowered their guard once more. Not entirely of course, but that implies they ever really did. Ralof still hadn’t moved from where he stood, giving Hadvar an odd look. He didn’t move until everyone was all almost out the door.

Vilkas honestly couldn’t believe he had gone from going on a simple (if odd) job with Niravas, to being trapped down in a dungeon with seven escaped Stormcloaks and a single Imperial while a dragon did it’s damndest to bring the building down upon them. Not to mention, Niravas had been reacting quite strangely, as well. It was as if they had been shaken to their very bones. He had never known _anything_ to phase them, not even when they had found out about his curse had they been so clearly affected.

They all continued along down the pathway, until reaching an area of natural cave, sunlight streaming down through the roof. The only man-made things in there were the walkways to the other side on which a few Stormcloaks walked. Much to their chagrin, Hadvar led the way as he was the only one who had been stationed at the fort. He then pulled a lever that would drop down a wooden bridge and allow them to continue, but only Niravas, Vilkas, Ralof, and Hadvar were able to get to the other side before the dragon roared yet again and rocks came tumbling down and destroying the bridge. Hadvar made a distressed noise as he whipped around and examined the falling rocks, as if he had any hope of moving them.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll make it out just fine,” Ralof said reassuringly, “I’m surprised you care so much about us rebels,” he joked.

“They’re still people,” Hadvar snapped, insulted that he would be accused of disregarding lost lives, “And though I would have fought them if truly necessary, that doesn’t mean I _want_ to see them killed.”

Just looking at them, what this war had done to them, was painful enough for Vilkas. It wasn’t just them, it was this whole fucking country, and it wasn’t like he was the only one who saw it. It was precisely the reason Kodlak had demanded absolute neutrality for the Companions, knowing full well it would only make things worse. He had even convinced the same of Balgruuf, to maintain the same standards in his hold despite constant heckling by either side to choose.

Hadvar, despite being stationed at Helgen, had no idea where to go next by this point. No one had been this far down into the keeps passages as far as he knew. Thankfully, the path was relatively straightforward, and to go in any other direction would be far more trouble than it was worth. Niravas could maybe worm their way through some of the smaller openings, but there was no hope for the other three.

They encountered things that should never under any circumstances be within such vicinity to a military base, such as frostbite spiders and bears that had long since made this place their homes. They were each, however, four very experienced combatants, and what they couldn’t sneak past were very easily dispatched. As they went further and further along, the cave was filled with more and more sunlight streaming down from cracks in the ceiling. They finally came across a large opening that was almost blinding to look at, and they were sure that was the way out—it had to be.

Niravas and Vilkas went on ahead, but before Ralof could follow, Hadvar caught him by the wrist and held him back.

“Hey, do me a favor, will you? When we get out?”

“Depends on what it is,” he answered, “Not like I can tell Jarl Ulfric to just _stop_.”

Hadvar laughed, and it was a bitter yet merry sound, “No, not that. I know you cannot do that, nor will you leave just as you know that neither will I. Just tell my uncle I am hale and whole, and… give Gerdur my well wishes.”

“Why can’t you tell them yourself? They miss you terribly,” And the ‘I miss you’ went unsaid.

“I can’t, I’m sorry. Tullius saw me run off with you, and if I don’t return he’ll think me a traitor,” He took a deep breath before continuing, “I hope to never see you on the battlefield.”

“Nor I you.”

Vilkas felt awkward to be looking in on this moment they just had, though Niravas remained indifferent to it all, stuck in that fearful trance. The final opening lay ahead, a few mountain paths and the great plain of Whiterun Hold before them. They were finally back out into the sun once more, but the moment was squandered as the dragon swooped high overhead one last time. They all four straightened from where they had crouched out of its sight.

“Riverwood is the nearest village,” Ralof supplied, “You lot are welcome to accompany me there.”

“Aye, we passed by it on the way up here.”

Vilkas didn’t comment on the way Ralof almost hesitated to begin making his way down the path, how he glanced behind him only to see Hadvar traveling back up the mountain to rejoin whatever Imperial troops survived.

Vilkas made to follow Ralof, but turned only to see Niravas’ gaze once more fixed skyward in the direction the dragon had fled. He tugged on their arm, and they blinked as if to banish the daze that had been plaguing them since before the attack even began. Their eyes seemed to clear and focus, and they looked at him in surprise, glancing around as if they barely remembered how they got here in the first place.

“You okay?”

“Aye, I’m fine.”

Vilkas made a mental note to inquire again later, as they were obviously in no state to talk about it in that moment. In fact, he had many more things he wanted to talk about, but he really needed to collect his thoughts to even begin discussing half of them. He merely turned to follow Ralof down the path with Niravas close behind. It was almost therapeutic to be out in the wilds again, and not confined in the ruins of a collapsing keep.

He took a deep breath of the fresh morning air. Beyond the stark scent of pine and snow, he got a faint whiff of flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this chapter just beat Prelude III for longest chapter in this fic


	15. Kismet III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried not to copy-paste that conversation too much, but at the very least I can make it clear that Farengar. Never. Shuts. Up.

_18th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

The road to Riverwood was far longer on foot than it was on horseback. Niravas had long since accepted the begrudging truth that their mares had run off or died in the attack, but that didn’t make this journey any less unpleasant. Ralof begun by being quite sullen, but soon proved himself to be rather talkative. He explained how they had been attempting to ambush the Imperial supply caravans coming in from Bruma, but of course General Tullius was always one step ahead.

He then went on to describe his life in Riverwood, how his sister practically runs the place because she owns the mill that keeps it afloat. He even took a moment to gush over his nephew, and Niravas humored him if only to make conversation. Vilkas was a bit more awkward about it, and so stayed quiet for the majority of it. The dialogue died down after a few hours, but they did eventually reach Riverwood.

It was far past dark, and Niravas made to make a beeline for the tavern they had stayed at before. Ralof had first requested they use their leverage as Companions to send reinforcements to the village, then secondly offered a bed at his sister’s place. They thanked him, but declined, as it was obvious that with him staying there, there would be too many people in the little cottage. Ancestors, hopefully the proprietor was still awake and had some rooms left. By the grace of all that is holy she did, and gave it over with little conversation as they both looked like they would drop at any moment.

They would say that they slept almost past noon, but that was an overstatement. Niravas rested fitfully, awaking at random intervals, but they were also too tired to rise entirely. Every time they managed to actually fall into a deep slumber, they were immediately awoken by dreams of blazing light and the smell of smoke.

Vilkas, thankfully, let them be. In fact, he slept like the dead, waking at what must’ve been past three, and the first thing they did was inspect the various cuts, burns, and bruises received in the attack that littered their form. Those really weren’t all that bad, though. It wasn’t anything that couldn’t easily heal on its own. No, what really bothered them was the fact that they ached _everywhere_ , especially on their feet. They decided that trekking through the mountains for half a day sucked ass.

Luckily the road to Whiterun was a straight path, no mountains, forests, or otherwise to trip them up. When they did finally set out, it was at a steady (albeit slow) pace. Their wounds were small, but numerous and ended up slowing them down tremendously. They both agreed it wouldn’t matter too much whether they hurried or not—no amount of rushing would get them to Whiterun before dark. Niravas decided to fill up those empty hours with idle talk.

“You know, I felt kinda like we shouldn’t have been even breathing the same air as those two,” They pointed out.

“Aye, it’s a shame what this war is doing to people,” Vilkas agreed, “People like them aren’t meant for the battlefield.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you come between a people and their god,” They shrugged, “You Nords are very attached to your Talos.”

“That we are, but I’ve never really been too reliant on religion. Sovngarde sounds nice, though,” He admitted. He sighed as he looked up at the stars as they began to peek out past the waning sunlight.

“We’ll have to find a way to break that curse of yours then,” They said.

He gave them an odd look of barely concealed confusion and panic, but he didn’t say anything and so neither did Niravas.

By the time they arrived at their destination, they were proven right in their estimation. A crescent Masser and invisible Secunda were now high in the sky, already climbing down from their apex. Despite the lateness, the guards let them in with little issue, likely only due to Vilkas’ presence. Usually, they would have to use the secret entrance into their safehouse on the other side of the wall if they wanted to enter and exit the city at this hour.

Jorrvaskr was tired and silent when they entered, the mead hall being completely empty. Niravas followed Vilkas downstairs where soft torchlight illuminated from somewhere within. They turned the corner to see the door to the Harbinger’s quarters was cracked, allowing light to spill out. Voices could be heard from within, and a single figure sat on a bench just outside. It was Aela, already looking their way as they rounded the corner.

“Finally! Get in here, already!” She commanded, ushering them into the room.

They entered the already cramped quarters without question. Kodlak and Skjor were already sitting at the table in the only two chairs, Farkas standing nearby. Aela leaned against the door when Niravas and Vilkas had entered. The two elder Companions started when the four of them entered, obvious relief washing over them.

“Thank Shor you’re both alive!” Farkas exclaimed in a whisper as he made his way over, embracing his brother.

“Why were you so late? Are you hurt?” Aela questioned, poking and prodding Vilkas.

“Our horses were scared off,” Niravas shrugged, “Or killed. Not really sure which.”

“We’re perfectly alright,” Vilkas clarified, “Just tired. Did word reach already?”

“Yesterday,” Kodlak clarified, “Is there any truth to it?

Niravas and Vilkas exchanged glances.

“Gone,” Niravas answered, “Burned to the ground.”

“So it’s true then?” Skjor pressed, “There really was a dragon?”

Niravas nearly flinched at the word, but instead tensed as they forced themself to remain impassive. Vilkas himself only nodded.

“Well, shit,” Skjor breathed.

Niravas declined their offers of a place to stay, even if it did mean a warm bed and strong drink. Their little safehouse was all they really wanted in that moment—a place familiar, comfortable, and out of sight from prying eyes. They didn’t really feel all too comfortable in Jorrvaskr, so out of place that they were nearly the center of attention. No, they would rather make their way across town in the dead of night, exhausted and aching, than that.

When they finally settled down, they sat cross-legged on one of their particularly cozy blankets, leaning against a pillow they had propped against the wall. With deft hands, they gently worked a needle into a soft, off-white fabric: the tunic they had been wearing when the dragon attacked. The coat they had worn over it was almost beyond saving, but the tunic itself only required minor mending.

It was then, alone and supposedly at peace, that things really begun to hit them. It was always so much easier to keep their cool, bottle up all that was bothering them, when there were others around. Thinking back on it, it was as if they _knew_ the dragon would come and raze the village to the ground. They had been awoken that morning by such a feeling of dread, as if they were still young and had just been caught slipping something of extreme worth into their pockets. The roars that pierced the air and shook the ground sounded to them as if battle cries, the drums of war.

But it was that moment in the tower was what really did it, as it viciously slammed through the stone wall and sent a burst of flame down the steps. Niravas _swore_ it said something, (even vaguely recalled remarking upon it) as it conjured the fire, words alien and familiar all at once. They simply couldn’t get it out of their head. “ _Yol toor shul_ ,” What could it mean? Was it some sort of spell?

They put their sewing supplies away with shaky hands, curled up in a cocoon of blankets, and dreamed restlessly of dragonfire.

* * *

 

_21st day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

It was nearing sundown, and Vilkas was blasted by frigid air as he opened the heavy oak doors and exiting Dragon’s Reach. Snow quickly began to settle on him, sticking to his hair, his cloak, his boots, but he ignored it as anyone who’d lived in Skyrim would. It was likely just a passing flurry anyhow, melting by morning. It wasn’t too late in the year, and they had some warmer days left in the year. He hurried through the streets, pushing past the crowds of citizens hoping to make their way home before the storm progressed too much.

He wasn’t too far away from the Drunken Huntsman before he came across a familiar figure just a few strides short of opening the door. They stopped just before their hand could reach the handle, turning to see Vilkas approach.

“Are you shitting me—” Niravas swore, “What now?”

Vilkas simply rolled his eyes, “You can drink later. Come on, this is important.”

They grumbled but didn’t argue, begrudgingly following him. Their complaints grew louder as they completely bypassed Jorrvaskr, instead going up to Dragonsreach.

The guards let him back in without a word, one merely nodding in acknowledgement while the other eyed Niravas suspiciously. Inside, was just as he’d left it: Balgruuf on his throne while Irileth, Proventus, and Kodlak conversed anxiously amongst themselves. They all froze then, looking up as the duo entered. No one spoke as they approached, varying reactions spreading across the group in silence as they took in the sight of this other who had supposedly witnessed the dragon firsthand.

Balgruuf made to speak, but Irileth beat him to breaking the silence, darting forwards and drawing the shortsword at her side. Vilkas tensed, hand hovering over the handle of his own blade. Kodlak himself seemed fully prepared to come between them should it come to blows.

“ _You_ ,” She accused, “Have a lot of gall returning here.”

“Me?” Niravas said in mock-confusion, only betrayed by the slight twitching of their ears.

“I never forget a face, _fetcher_ ,” She spit.

Balgruuf rose, standing before them, “Just what in Oblivion is going on here? Irileth? Vilkas?”

“They were here that night, masquerading as a servant!” She explained with no small amount of venom.

Kodlak sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth.

“What night?” Balgruuf whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer. “Twenty years ago.”

The jarl was silent for a moment before finally speaking, “I see.”

“What?” Niravas protested, “I had nothing to do with that! In fact, I caught the guy!”

“No, but I thought Vilkas did after…” Balgruuf trailed off, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Vilkas stepped forth, nudging Niravas behind him, and there must’ve been some sort of pleading look in his eyes because Irileth relaxed her stance and sheathed her weapon with a sigh.

“Whatever the case may be, we’re in a crisis,” Kodlak insisted, “We can’t afford to waste time when there is a very real threat coming this way.”

“And you both can vouch for this then?” Balgruuf said, addressing Vilkas and Niravas once more, “A dragon was truly responsible for the destruction of Helgen?”

Vilkas merely nodded in affirmation, “It couldn’t have been anything else,” And kept the fact that they had only been present due to an anonymous contractor to himself.

“Well there you have it, Proventus: Irileth was right. If a fortified keep like Helgen didn’t stand a chance, what hope do we have?”

“Not only that,” Irileth interjected, “But Riverwood is scarcely a day’s ride from Helgen. We must send a detachment at once.”

“No, we mustn't!” Proventus argued, “Jarl Siddgeir will view it at provocation! We should si—”

“Enough! I will not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and _slaughters_ my people! Irileth send a detachment to Riverwood at once. I will not allow anymore to die while this beast rampages through my lands.”

She thumped a fist against her chest as she bowed, “Yes, my jarl.”

Proventus was positively fuming as he excused himself from the room. Vilkas might’ve laughed had the situation not been so dire. Others took this as a chance, Irileth and Kodlak also taking their leave.

“My jarl, if I may?” Came a voice from the side room, now that the excitement had died down.

Farengar had peaked his head into the throne room, and had a distinct twinkle of excitement to his eyes.

“Of course.”

“I believe my research may be of use in the coming days. In fact, these two here, having seen a dragon first-hand and being skilled in combat, may be able to aid me in the next part of my work.”

“That depends on the work,” Vilkas answered.

“Don’t drag me into this!” Niravas protested.

“I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say ‘fetch’ I actually mean ‘delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there’,” And he actually managed to look a tad sheepish as he said this.

Niravas raised a brow, “That still manages to be _extremely_ vague. What’s it we’re to be fetching and where?”

“And what has this to do with dragons?” Vilkas added.

Farengar’s eyes lit up at the question, “Ah, no mere brute mercenary, but a thinker—perhaps even a scholar?”

Niravas scowled and muttered darkly in Dunmeris under their breath, causing him to blanch. Though, he quickly shrugged it off and continued as if that had not occurred.

“You see, when tales of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumours, impossibilities. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside of their experience as being impossible. But I began to search for information about dragons: where had they gone all those years ago? Where were they coming from? I, ah, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow: a ‘Dragonstone’ said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. As for what I want you to do, go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet—no doubt interred in the main chamber—and bring it to me.” He then smiled cheerily, “Simplicity itself.”

Balgruuf hovered impatiently tapping his foot, heaved a sigh of relief when Farengar finally stopped talking, “This is a priority now. Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or perhaps even _dragons_ , we need it quickly, before it’s too late. Succeed at this, and you’ll be rewarded. Whiterun will be in your debt.”


	16. Kismet IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I'm a day late again, but anyways here's the level literally everyone hates.

_23rd day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

Niravas was going to _scream_. They didn’t quite know how, but Vilkas had managed to convince them to go along with him on this mad quest. If it wasn’t bad enough that their head was still swimming from their encounter with that dragon, this was the third time they’d have to pass through Riverwood in the past week. Not to mention, they still hadn’t been paid, which was absolute horseshit. At least they had been given a day—however meager that time may be—of leeway before they would have to set out.

They had wasted the majority of that time in the Huntsman, drinking and swapping stories with Jenassa. Were it not for the multitudes of witnesses, reports, and rumors, she likely wouldn’t have believed a word they said. Their explanation had been lengthy, if spotty. They still couldn’t quite get all the details together, especially near the beginning there when the beast first appeared. Had they inhaled too much smoke?

“Well, can’t say I was involved in anything quite so exciting as that,” Jenassa admitted, tone still holding an air of disbelief, “Good news, though: there’s one less gang of highwaymen in the world.”

The next morning (though it was early enough to still be considered the previous night), they donned their Nightingale armor without really thinking. They stood for a moment, staring at their hand, at the rich fabrics and leathers coating it. They shoved down the uncomfortable sinking, fluttering feeling the sight gave them, shaking the thoughts out of mind before exiting the safehouse.

They picked their way through the alleys and backroads despite how needless it was. They still found comfort in the familiar paths, as if the dangers of prying eyes in broad daylight applied to so late at night. Anyone out and about at this hour would more than likely be of just as questionable ilk as they. It didn’t take them long to come across a familiar face. Approaching, they pulled down their hood and drew out a pressed and sealed letter from their pocket.

“Where’ve y’been?” Questioned the young Niben, “Brynjolf and Karliah’ve been on my ass about this for weeks!”

“I’ve been busy,” Niravas shrugged, “Just send this along.”

“Dare I ask what it is?”

“Just information on when I’ll be back. Nothing you can really use, I’m afraid,” They explained with very little sympathy.

“You mean you’re not going back?” They inquired a bit more timidly this time, as if they just remembered their comparative status. “Course not! I’ve still got a lot to do."

The Niben grumbled, but did as they were told. Niravas laughed softly, knowing having Karliah and Brynjolf combined breathing down one’s neck isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world. They turned, looking out into the darkness.

“Alright, doll, you can come out now,” They called out.

Vilkas huffed but stepped out of the shadows. He looked… frazzled somewhat. As if he had seen something disturbing. His eyes were that eerie, lupine gold. He didn’t say anything, however, and if he was willing to let it lie, so was Niravas.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asked casually.

“I’m not really one to be awake in the daylight hours, y’know.”

“We leave in a few hours,” He laughed, “You should be asleep.”

“Hypocrite,” They accused.

He really was a hypocrite, and an exhausted one at that. Well, at least he had an excuse: the beastblood that warded off a good night’s sleep better than any herb or spell. That was how he ended up strolling through the midnight streets of Whiterun, the twin gibbous moons shining brightly above. It was by mere chance he happened to see shadow darting by out of his periphery. They didn’t seem to notice as he tailed them.

He was instantly intrigued by their passing, leaving behind barely a sound or even a scent. It was a miracle even managed to catch a glimpse of them. Now, with them in plain sight, he still found difficulty with making out any details, and he gave in slightly to his instincts as if he were stalking prey. Understanding didn’t crest until his quarry stopped and lowered their hood. It was as if his ears had just popped, relief rushing over him as he could finally perceive who was before him. He froze. Gods, how could he not recognize the one person he could pick out of a crowd even while blindfolded?

Even more so, how could he believe someone like them wouldn’t notice him tailing along behind.

He spent the rest of the night sleepless, only catching catnaps here and there before being wrested from vaguely-formed dreams by some random thought or another. He made the last-minute preparations for the day’s journal with a scowl, and for once Niravas didn’t deign to take advantage of it for amusement’s sake. In fact, they didn’t look much happier, clutching a flask filled with coffee they had gotten from Jorrvaskr just before setting out. Occasionally, as they went along, they would clasp it tight and whisper, causing steam to rise up from the small opening.

“You know magic?”

“Hardly,” They snorted, “Lighting shit on fire’s the extent of it.”

They then held out the flask in offering. He took it gratefully, brushing briefly against their now warmed fingers before taking a swig.

They arrived in Riverwood without incident, handing over the new horses they had been forced to rent to the stables. It wasn’t quite nightfall by the time they arrived, but after doffing their armor, they easily collapsed into their rented room. They slept on opposite sides of the bed, and If Vilkas didn’t already sleep with little covers, he might’ve been bothered by Niravas hogging the blankets. He found himself in the wake of yet another sleepless night, even after traveling throughout the day.

“Where’d you get your armor?” He slurred sleepily.

“Hm?” Came a confused grunt behind him, “S'the middle—” A yawn, “Middle of the night.”

“How observant.”

A pause.

“Would you believe me if I said I stole it from the Imperial Palace during a trip to Cyrodiil in my youth?”

“Maybe if you didn’t phrase it that way.”

“If I told you I’d have to kill you,” They joked.

“Could you?”

He wasn’t even sure himself what he meant when he said that, whether it was a question of literal ability or emotional ability.

“Just go the fuck to sleep already,” They replied as they snuggled further into the cocoon of blankets they had constructed around themself.

* * *

 

_24th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

The morning began dismally. Starting off, snow had been falling steadily since sometime in the night, and the ground was sporting a healthy coat of white. This led into the second reason. The mountain was steep and heaped with snow, almost too much so for a person, and completely impassable for a pair of horses carrying two grown people. Niravas’ bright red hair was already beginning to quickly spot with white, something they couldn’t shake off half as easily as Vilkas seemed to. It was as if he didn’t even notice the frost collecting on his beard.

“Fuck Skyrim, honestly,” Niravas announced bitterly.

“It’s just a bit of snow,” Vilkas replied.

They frowned, “I’m short, okay?” Comparatively anyhow, “This goes up almost to my knees! Also, s'fucking freezing.”

He laughed, “How long have you been living in Skyrim?”

“Long enough to know that this is bullshit,” They grumbled.

He stared in disbelief “Does it not snow _at all_ where you’re from?”

“I’m from a volcanic island, so no. When it does, it normally melts by morning and gets all slushy.”

“Vvardenfell?”

“Ebonheart, specifically.”

Vilkas grew somewhat somber as he continued with his questioning, “Why’d you ever leave then? You seem to miss it a lot.”

“I do,” They said with a nostalgic smile, “But I… couldn’t stay.” They then looked over as Vilkas remained silent. “What, you’re not gonna ask me why?”

He snorted, “Would you have answered?’

“No, I suppose not.”

* * *

 

Almost to the peak of the mountain, they came across what looked to be a watchtower. It was in severe disrepair, yet still Vilkas put out an arm to hold Niravas back. He pointed to a slight movement just behind the rocks, and they both made their way to the treeline and crouched down low. They attempted to merely bypass it, as neither knew for sure their numbers. That plan was quickly abandoned, however, as an arrow whizzed past his ear. They quickly made their way in, and took out the small roave of bandits camping there with ease.

Vilkas glared in pure disapproval as he glanced over, only to see Niravas patting down the fresh corpses.

Unfortunately, at least half a dozen more were spotted as they ascended the grand, crumbling staircase to the barrow. They would not have the element of surprise this time, but this didn’t worry Vilkas too much as he rushed in, drawing their attention as Niravas went off to the side and flanked as many as they could. The bandits barely put up a fight, malnourished and frostbitten as they were, so it was no wonder they were holed up in such a barren place. Niravas only suffered a small cut on their cheek where they slipped slightly on the frozen flagstone and couldn’t dodge in time, but it was quickly cleaned to rid of any possible poisons and ward off infection before they moved on.

Finally, they made their way up to the large, creaking stone door etched with swirling designs immediately recognizable as nordic. After a bit of effort, they managed to heave them open revealing a large, musty room coated with moss and smelling of rot. On the floor was more than a few skeever corpses, and Vilkas noticeably grimaced upon seeing (and _smelling_ ) the long-dead, bloated corpse of a bandit haphazardly shoved in a corner. They weren’t entirely sure where the damage left from decay began and the squalor previously lived in began.

At the far end of the hall were a couple more bandits, seemingly the last of them. They looked haggard and weary, their faces looking especially gaunt in the flickering of the campfire they had set up. They reached for their weapons and though they fought ferociously, they fell with their throats slit and skulls bashed, killed instantly. The staircase ahead was crumbling with each step from age, and a healthy layer of cobwebs where the walls met the floor. Afterwards when the floor flattened out, they came across shelves stacked with a few solid gold burial urns. Vilkas promptly slapped Niravas’ hands out of the way when they made a grab for them.

As they descended down a slope, skeever corpses continuing to litter the ground and tangling up in the slithering roots and vines that dug into the earth and through the rock of the tomb, they eventually heard a voice. They pressed on as silently as possible, but just as they rounded the corner and prepared to attack, the bandit was pierced with a multitude of darts shot from a contraption. Before them was a lever stained with blood, and a firmly locked, iron gate.

“What in Oblivion’s this?” Niravas inquired, stepping forward.

“The Ancient Nords often trapped their tombs,” Vilkas answered, “But there’s always a way around them.”

It wasn’t a very difficult puzzle, even with the stone crumbling to dust all around them, it was fairly obvious the turning stones must be matched with those held aloft the door. Afterwards, the tunnels became so overgrown with cobwebs that the both of them now looked to be greying with how much stuck into their hair. A voice began to cry for help as it echoed out into the tunnels. Vilkas nearly rushed forward, but a steady hand held him back. He looked back to see Niravas shaking their head. Be quiet and stealthy; assess the situation first.

The finally came across another opening in the caves, but it was blocked off by such thick webs that Niravas had to put up a hand heated with a simple fire spell. Vilkas presumed it was the same spell they used previously, though obviously a touch more powerful and intended to burn rather than warm.

As soon as they walked in, a massive frostbite spider that had to have been twice the size of a horse dropped from the ceiling and shrieked in rage. It pounced forth, going straight for Niravas. Vilkas grasped their hood, pulling back sharply in an attempt to get them out of the immediate danger. They didn’t seem to need it, however, as they panicked and lost control of their spell. The massive spider ended up severely burned in the shape of a hand print on the left side of its face and Niravas was left shaking off how sudden it was. Vilkas used this as an opportunity to rush in and shove his sword up under the fangs and out through the back of the head. It twitched and groaned as the blade was removed, collapsing to the ground as its legs gave out.

“Oh thank the Ancestors,” Cried the voice, now much closer “You did it! You killed it! Now cut me down before anything else shows up.”

They looked over to see yet another bandit who was currently trapped in a thick layer of webbing to the wall. He was obviously a mer, but was covered in such grime that the only reason he could be identified as dunmer was his eyes. He was pleading, fearful, yet still Niravas must have seen something because they pushed Vilkas aside. Suddenly the bandit was dead, neck slit as he hung suspended by cobwebs there in the doorway.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Vilkas said, clearly startled, as he tried to process the viciousness in Niravas’ tone and actions.

“Call it thief’s intuition,” They offered as way of an explanation, “This fetcher’s bad news, I promise.”

“He didn’t even attack us!” Vilkas protested.

They cut him down and began to rifle through his pockets, eventually among the few septims, meager potions, and a journal pulling out a strange object. It was made of solid gold and ornately carved.

“No, but he’s with those idiots upstairs. Wouldn’t doubt he’d’ve tried if given half a chance.”

* * *

 

The caves were, quite frankly, beautiful. There were waterfalls sparkling with light from above that glistened on the rocks. Unfortunately, it was absolutely deafening, and Niravas could scarcely hear themself think, let alone keep an ear out for any more bandits that could be ahead. They also had to take some care in where they stepped, the moss raising the chances of slipping and falling—quite possibly into some crevice or another next to the main path.

“This place is kinda pretty, yeah?” Niravas observed, risking a normal speaking volume to compensate for the already present noises in the room. It felt more like an icebreaker: something to loosen the tension from earlier.

Vilkas looked surprised, but after taking a quick glance around, “Aye, I suppose so.”

Niravas laughed softly, “How far down d'you think we are?”

“Well,” He paused a moment then pointed to the source of the waterfalls, “We can still see daylight, so not too far I’d wager.”

It was after that they came across the first draugr. It was alone, and Niravas was able to take it out by a quick stab down and under the ribcage.They were thankful that’s all it took (as if it were still alive), to take care of the creature. They would have been in a rather compromising position, so close to it, had it not. They came across a few more patrolling singularly, and they were taken out in quite the same manner. They didn’t encounter any problems until the next trap: three massive axe-pendulums swinging in a small passageway.

“Wait here,” Niravas ordered before they were off with no other warning.

They swiftly moved straight past the first axe and waited, pressed up against the wall. As soon as the next one swished past their face at an alarming speed, they bolted. Again, the patience, then the springing of muscles and they were suddenly at the other side of the passage. Vilkas did his best to mimic, but he was not nearly as sure on his feet when not in a combat setting. There were a few close calls and he waited longer than necessary until the blades swooped by at least three or more times. Eventually, however, he got passed hale and whole, if paler and more wild-eyed than before. His expression then dropped into something more undefinable as he approached a chain attached to the wall.

“This better not be what I think it is,” He said, pulling it.

Creaked sounded throughout the area and the pendulums stopped.

Niravas merely stared for a moment before shouting, “Are you shitting me!?”

And that was how they had about four or five angry draugr on them at once. Vilkas took out a couple before Niravas dove to the ground. They came up and lobbed what looked to be a fist-sized stone before the entire part of the room in front of them was engulfed in flames. Another two draugr were taken down in the inferno, and Vilkas cleanly decapitated another that came out screeching and burnt.

“What do we do about the fire, now?” Vilkas asked.

“Uh… go around it and hope it doesn’t come back to bite us in the ass? See, if you burned your dead right off, they wouldn’t walk around and try to kill people.”

Vilkas barked out a laugh, “Absolutely barbaric.”

Thankfully, the flames died down shortly, with a little help from them stomping on it with their boots already damp from the waterfall and a few small streams they had to cross in the caves. They eventually came across a large, dark corridor with walls covered in carvings that looked to be depicting a series of stories. If only they knew what was being said. At the far end was a doorway trumping the size of the entrance. Upon it were three dials, each with a gold engraving on it.

“Hm, thought that looked familiar. Niravas, give me that weird gold claw.”

“What for?” They inquired, already reaching for it.

“I’ve read about this before,” He replied, comparing the underside of the claw to the symbols on the door. As he spun the ancient stonework, Niravas couldn’t help but think that the Nords liked their matching games. There were a few deep clicks that reverberated around the room, and Niravas feared he had made a mistake before the door shuddered, then sunk into the ground.

Just through that was a massive room, and at the end was a pedestal upon which was only a single, grand sarcophagus. Niravas’ blood then ran cold as they began to hear an odd chanting. It was a terrifyingly familiar sensation: exactly what they had felt when the dragon showed up. They walked forwards without thinking, and the semicircular wall on the back of the pedestal began to glow ominously. It grew brighter and brighter with every step they took, and they were only sparsely aware of Vilkas’ shouts of warning as he cut down the draugr that appeared from the shadows.

The chanting was now roaring and cacophonous, as they finally got over to the wall. They placed a hand upon it, nearly caressing the carved runes, and the light it became blinding. Niravas fell to their knees and rested both hands against the wall, and shivering intensely, as if they had been buried in snow for an hour. Tears began to well up and finally fall and they still remained oblivious to the outside world. That is, until Vilkas screamed bloody murder in the form of their name.

It was only then that they realized the greatsword raised high and just about to crash down upon their head. They managed to duck and roll out of the way by only a hair’s breadth, but tumbled down off the pedestal when they tried to get immediately back on their feet. When Niravas attempted to draw a dagger, their hands still shook uncontrollably. The draugr, dressed in rotted and tattered but still noticeably regal clothing, stalked forwards.

It was nearly upon them, yet still they could scarcely move. The killing blow was about to be delivered before suddenly there was a blade sticking out of its midsection. It seemed startled, and paused for just brief and instant for Niravas to lunge upwards and stab a single dagger with both hands into its left eye socket. It howled in pain before falling to the ground and convulsing violently. The convulsing soon turned to writhing, then twitching, until it was finally still. Only then did Niravas relax their grip on the blade.

Vilkas didn’t give them even a moment of reprieve, pulling them upright from where they were about to fall again.

“ _What_ in the name of the Nine just happened?”

They looked up and him, but their lips only quivered when they tried to talk. They barely even managed to get out a single syllable, “ _Fus_...”

His relief turned to worry, “I— What does that even mean?”

“I… I don’t… It was just what the wall said. Ancestors...” And they fell forwards into his arms.

“Are you alright?” He asked in a hushed tone, holding them close.

“I’m fine,” They insisted, getting to their feet, “Just gimme a mo’. Holy balls, I’m tired.”

“Let’s just get out of here, okay?”


	17. Kismet V

_24th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

They took advantage of the peace and quiet, having presumably slaughtered all the remaining draugr. Vilkas could only look on in worry as Niravas sat on the ground, shaking violently and hugging their knees. They appeared deep in thought, and barely responded when he attempted to communicate: a sure sign that _something_ had to be wrong. But what? The better part of an hour had passed before they began seeming like themself again. By this, he meant they finally got to their feet and began clearing the tomb out of all its valuables. They did however, he noticed, refuse to return to the pedestal where the tomb sat.

He had half a mind to stop them, but he was too preoccupied, anyhow, as he examined the wall at the far side of the room. It had been glowing faintly, for certain, only ceasing when Niravas touched it and rendering them near catatonic. The symbols looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn’t quite place their origins despite how well read he claimed to be. He then turned his attention to the sarcophagus itself, which was riddled with all assortments of valuables. He didn’t touch any of it, only brushing aside some gold pieces that covered a curious slab of stone. He frowned as he noticed it was etched with the same runes as on the wall.

“Do you think this looks like what we’re looking for?” He said, holding it up.

Niravas stalked forwards, eying the tablet cautiously before taking it in hand, “I suppose so. What’s this say?”

“No clue. Perhaps...” He trailed off as he noticed them mumbling under their breath.

“ _‘Het nok un’_ —”

“Niravas!” Vilkas exclaimed, cutting them off, “Can you read this?”

“Not a lick, but… S'familiar, I think.”

“This is…” Vilkas swallowed harshly, “Probably what Farengar meant. Let’s just get back.”

“Come on. Places like this always have a back entrance; help me look.”

Vilkas got to his feet and merely nodded as he too began to look about for anything that might indicate an exit closer than where they had originally come from. It didn’t take long to find a staircase leading to a winding tunnel towards the back of the pedestal. Wind began to shriek, growing louder as they went onwards, but led to a dead end. Fortunately, the way was easily cleared via a simple lever that needed to be raised and twisted. As the stone rose up into the ceiling, Vilkas trailed behind as Niravas went along forwards, pocketing everything shiny that could possibly be of worth as they went.

“I can’t believe I’m just sitting here and letting you desecrate a tomb,” Vilkas huffed.

Niravas forced a smile, “Oh please, we already beat up half the dead buried here. I don’t think taking a bit of their stuff’s really going to matter.”

They rounded a corner and immediately felt a smack of wind right as it grew positively deafening. Finally, they made it out of the ruins and onto the snowy, barren mountainside overlooking the woodlands of Skyrim. Snow was still softly falling from the skies and dusting their figures in cold. Niravas took a deep breath of the fresh air and looked immediately better; shivering now from cold rather than events that recently transpired.

“Ancestors, never thought I’d actually _miss_ Skyrim’s bullshit weather,” Niravas admitted as they pulled their cloak tightly around themself.

“You admitting you actually like Skyrim? That’s a first,” Vilkas said with a grin.

Niravas laughed merrily, “Well, don’t tell anyone. It’d absolutely _ruin_ my reputation.”

By the time they had made their way down the mountain, Niravas’ usual charm soon returning full force. They rested once more at the inn, it being well past dark now, and Vilkas took note of the fact that the severe tavern proprietor was missing, her husband filling her place. They spent an hour or so down in the tavern proper—not long at all—merely taking a moment to themselves to drink. They’d just finished the last of their tankards and were about to make their way to their room before a young woman burst through the doors, scanned the bar room, and immediately rushed over to them

“Wait,” She cried out, “You were just up at Bleak Falls Barrow, weren’t you?”

Niravas and Vilkas eyed her warily before he answered, “Aye, that’s correct. Why?”

“You see, those bandits up there took something very valuable from my brother and I,” She explained, “It was a dragon claw made of solid gold we used to keep on display at our store.”

Vilkas fished the claw out of his pack, “You mean this?”

The woman went wide-eyed at the mention of tombs, and stared at them as if they were something great and mighty. She thanked them profusely before making her way back into the village. She even pressed a small pouch of gold into his hands, leaving before he could insist she keep it.

Later that night, Niravas promptly told him that if he didn’t want the money, they would gladly accept it in his stead.

* * *

 

_25th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

They rode on towards Whiterun the next morning, arriving a few hours short of dusk despite setting out early in the morning. Niravas wasted no time in bursting into Dragon’s Reach, making a beeline for the court wizard’s workspace. They waved the tablet around with no regard for how old and fragile it must have been.

“Alright, Farengar!” They announced, “This blasted thing’d _better_ be worth it ‘cause I went through Oblivion and back to get it!”

Said wizard was in the middle of a conversation with a hooded woman dressed in leathers who looked to perhaps be a Breton. Niravas’ eyes widened as they realized just who it was, looking to Vilkas to see he donned a similar expression. It was the tavern-keeper from Riverwood, no doubt. She looked up in irritation, only to be pushed aside by Farengar as he excitedly grasped the tablet.

“Ah, I see you have retrieved the tablet I told you of,” He remarked gleefully. “This is such an amazing find, and yet…” A scowl, “I hate translating the dragon tongue.”

“Why’s that? I thought the language being cursed was a myth” Vilkas asked.

“No, just blown out of proportion. It’s just a little difficult for non-draconic people to read, but it won’t carry if we get it into common lettering.”

Niravas merely rolled their eyes, demanding “Get me a quill and paper, then.”

Farengar gave them an odd look, but ultimately complied. They began to delicately transcribe in a scrawling hand what little they could read, turning the clawmark-like runes into legible common script.

_Het nok un_

_mahlaan drogge_

_erei suleyk se_

_Alduin vokrii_

Vilkas, Farengar, and the tavern-keeper looked on in shock, and Niravas felt quite smug in that moment as they passed over their handiwork. The wizard’s gaze began to quickly switch between the slab and the paper, comparing for any mistakes. The tavern-keeper then joined him, and the two began to whisper among each other to find out exactly what that means. Niravas and Vilkas stood there awkwardly for the next ten minutes as they did so.

“More _fucking_ cultists!” She cursed.

“What?” asked Vilkas.

“It says ‘Here lie our fallen lords until power of Alduin restore’. The people buried in the Barrow were Dragon Cultists.”

Vilkas sucked in a harsh breath while Niravas merely frowned in confusion. “Is this a Nordic thing? Does it make you feel less bad about letting me desecrate a tomb?”

“A little,” Vilkas admitted.

“Oh, are you actually from Morrowind?” Farengar rambled, completely ignoring the comment, “Apologies, our lore must sound odd compared to yours. Here, let me expl—”

A set of thundering footsteps coupled with a voice, “Farengar!” cut him off. Irileth then arrived out of breath in the room. “Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon’s been sighted nearby!”

Everyone in the room froze, tension palpable in the air. Well, everyone that is except the man in question. In fact, he looked absolutely _delighted_ in a way that no one being told of their impending doom ever should. Niravas was about two seconds away from punching him in the face

Farengar began to babble in excitement, inquiry after inquiry coming rapid fire, “A dragon? How exciting! Where was it seen? What was it doing?” Irileth huffed, “I’d take this a bit more seriously if I were you. If it decides to attack Whiterun, I’m honestly not sure if we can stop it.” The four of them were then rushed up to the second floor, just behind the throne room. Balgruuf was there, along with a young guard that couldn’t have been too far past his majority. His yellow and blue heralded cuirass was terribly singed, and the helmet he cradled in his hands had a horrible dent to one side. He had a matching wound of much smaller proportions on his head, indicating that he was lucky to be alive much less get the helmet off in the first place. He stood there—quaking in his boots—as Balgruuf questioned him a bit more relentlessly than should have been required, but nerves shot his better judgement on the matter. He blubbered like a child, barely holding back tears as he described the event.

“It’s coming this way!” He bawled, “We don’t stand a chance.”

Balgruuf took a deep breath. “Now, now, calm yourself,” He said putting a hand reassuringly on the guard’s shoulder, “We’ll take it from here. Head down to the barracks for some food and rest; you’ve earned it.”

The guard nodded shakily and exited the room on quaking legs.

Irileth, Niravas, Vilkas, and a detachment of about five or so other guards were sent to the location, but hadn’t managed to make it far. Just on the horizon, a dark mass careened through the sky, smoke rising up from the carnage left in its wake. That gods forsaken roaring was back, rumbling the earth and causing Niravas’ ears to ring. It instantly reminded them of Helgen, causing them to make an effort to steady their breathing.

Irileth, leading the charge, stopped dead in her tracks and muttered, “Ancestors preserve us…”

It wasn’t long before the beast was upon them, all whipping wings and thunderous sound. It felt like and an earthquake hit when it landed on top of the main gate. Everyone in the small contingent and a few guards also present readied their weapons, malice and dread painting their features. Niravas, however, nearly dropped their daggers when those same incantation-like words were bellowed out, followed by a torrent of flame.

“ _Yol toor shul!_ ”

It took to the sky yet again, the once mighty gate of Whiterun crumpling beneath its sheer weight as it kicked off, and Niravas could swear that it was speaking—no, taunting—even if they couldn’t make out a word, “ _Thuri du hin sille ko Sovngarde!_ ”

Guards began to swarm as citizens cleared from the streets. Irileth and the official commander of the guards, Caius, desperately attempted to gain control of their forces, directing the guards into formation. Ultimately, those with only melee weapons (that is, a good majority of the forces concentrated, including Niravas themself) could only watch as what few archers they had did their damndest to bring the creature to the ground.

Arrows flew across the sky and battle cries echoed past the horizon. It occasionally lobbed balls of molten rock down upon them between the curtains of flame. Sometimes it would fly low to the ground and swipe at those it passed. Niravas was sure they saw at least two or three of the guards go down, one of which was severely burned. It seemed, however, that the only result of their attacks was loosing arrows, shots glancing off hard scales or missing entirely.

Until, that is, one lucky shot caught the joint of one of its wings. It began to dive, then crashed to the ground and shattered the stone lying beneath it. It immediately rose again in fury, releasing yet another inferno. Clawing and snapping at anyone who dared approach, it stopped when Niravas stepped forward. It’s vengeful expression shifted into that of amusement.

It to make a sound akin to a chuckle, shifting its stance as if ready to pounce, “You are brave, _balaan hororon_. Your defeat brings me honor.”

“You fucking wish,” They grit out between clenched teeth just as Vilkas bashed the back of their neck with his greatsword.

Fear flashed across the dragon’s eyes, and Niravas spoke, “Obviously you’re intelligent; you can speak. Who are you?”

Vilkas, about to attack once more, halted mid-swing, staring at the two of them in horrified confusion. “I… I am _Mirmulnir_ ,” They rasped weakly as they tried to maintain what little pride they still had.

“Well, _Mirmulnir_ , lemme start by saying that ‘your defeat brings me honor’.”

“ _Dovahkiin_ , no!” It cried out just as Niravas bypassed its tough scales by driving their dagger into its eye socket and directly into the brain—killing it instantly.

Everyone stared down at it in disbelief, the tears of terror from the injured guard becoming those of relief. He cheered, breaking the silence and bringing about a different type of cacophony: one of victory and celebration rather than the thunder of battle. People began peeking out from their hiding places, drawn by the joyous sound, and joined in. Citizens were dancing in the streets, for now ignoring that the entire entrance area to the city was now scorched and toppled. That was a problem for a later date because they had miraculously _survived_.

Their boisterous revelry was interrupted, however, when the dragon, _Mirmulnir_ , suddenly caught flame, glowing with this otherworldly light.

“What in the ever-loving fuck?!” A guard started.

“Everybody, get back!” Irileth ordered.

That odd chanting heard at the wall back in Bleak Falls Barrow was back far louder than before. Niravas froze in shock as the skin and flesh all burned away and rushed towards them in a sudden gust of wind. It began to surround them, voices shouting rhythmically to the harsh thrumming of their heart. They were all but overwhelmed with the feeling of something impossibly powerful, impossibly ancient. When they finally came to, Vilkas was shaking their shoulders and yelling as the guards murmured among themselves in awe and fear.

“Vilkas..?” They rasped.

“Yes?”

“I think I know what that wall was for.”

“What do you—”

He was then cut off when they whispered a single word, but despite the volume at which they initially said it, a great, thundering “ _Fus_ ” raged towards the heavens.

“The power of old!” Exclaimed another guard.

Vilkas, who, like much of the crowd, had stepped back in bewilderment, approached Niravas once more, “You… You’re Dragonborn.”

Niravas frowned, “I’ve no idea what that means.”

He regarded them for a moment before sighing, “Come on, let’s just go get a drink and claim our reward.”

“Reward?” They echoed, but considered it a moment, “Hm, guess we killed a dragon after all.”

They then waltzed over to the dragon’s now bare skeleton, adorned only by several meager remaining scales (of which they scooped up and pocketed), and promptly tugged at one of its horns. It took a bit of doing, but eventually it splintered off like a dried, dead twig.

“Proof,” They claimed, holding it up triumphantly.

“As if being able to use the Voice isn’t enough,” He muttered.

The whole of Whiterun simply stared—taken aback and most on the verge of collapse. For the first time since Helgen, Niravas felt at peace, for lack of a better term. It was as if a great weight had been lifted and something in the universe had just been clicked into place. The only thing left out of place was the single word left lying on the tip of their tongue that had been wrenched from the very soul of a relic of another age.

Vilkas then ushered Niravas along, but they had barely made their way back up to Jorrvaskr before their day was once again promptly ruined. A mighty shout of half a dozen voices reverberated across the air and the earth speaking a single word:

_Dovahkiin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact!  
> Because I was curious, I clicked "entire work" on this fic and, not including this chapter, I've used the word "fuck" 44 times, and "shit" 35 times. You'd think this would be my wake up call to tone down the swearing, but you'd be wrong.
> 
> UPDATE: oh my god???? So apparently ao3 decided to just not put in all my horizontal lines. you know the ones that denote a change in pov.... Anyways, I fixed that now and learned that I really need to use the "preview" button before posting


	18. Kismet VI

_25th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

The mead hall of Jorrvaskr was warm and smelled of the freshly cooked meal Tilma had laid out before Niravas and Vilkas. Though the duo originally entered with a jovial energy, it wore off as soon as the adrenaline did and left them slumped over the table. Vilkas’ armor was scorched and slashed in more places than one, but it didn’t escape his notice that Niravas’ odd set remained almost entirely untouched, only lightly dusted with ash. Nevertheless, they both looked bruised, battered, and on the verge of collapse. Many of the other Companions looked on with a myriad of expressions, but awe and disbelief were among the most common.

Aela sat down across from Niravas holding a tankard, and took a large gulp before blatantly pointing out, “You look hungover.”

“I _feel_ hungover,” Niravas replied, then added, “Did you know that dragons can talk?”

She raised a brow, “Are you sure you weren’t drinking before going out to fight that thing? It might explain, well, everything.”

Skjor then approached from where he had been conversing with Kodlak, “I think I ate its soul—or something.”

He blinked, “Pardon.”

“Apparently Skyrim’s favorite idiot is the Dragonborn,” Vilkas supplied.

“ _Pardon_ ,” He repeated.

“By the way, their name was _Mirmulnir_. The dragon, that is,” They clarified, receiving a crowd of blank stares. “I just thought you’d like to know.”

Before Skjor could demand an explanation, Farkas then entered through the large double doors, fully armed. “What in the name of the Nine happened to the gate?!”

“A dragon sat on it,” Niravas supplied.

He was silent for a long moment before finding his voice again, “Well, I guess that explains the skeleton.”

The next twenty minutes were spent explaining the battle, something Vilkas easily managed. It was what happened following their victory that he began to stumble over his words. How to explain it? He simply turned around, and the corpse was ablaze and Niravas was glowing. Then the next thing he knew, they managed to use the _Thu’um_ of all things, spooking half of Whiterun (including himself) in the process. Following the lengthy retelling, Farkas merely stared as if trying to find some hint of untruth in the story.

“I need a drink,” He finally decided.

Vilkas more than agreed, passing him one of the several tankards strewn about the table, “Don’t we all.”

“Where’d you run off to, anyhow?” Vilkas asked.

“Contract. Not nearly as hard as yours, though. Only took a couple of hours to get there, take care of it, and come back.”

Vilkas laughed, “And you had the luck to return to this, of all things.”

“Yep,” Farkas said simply before taking a large gulp of his drink.

They spent the next hour or so revelling in the peace of simply sitting with company having a drink. They swapped stories, Niravas and Vilkas mostly recounting what led them up to fighting a dragon in the first place. Niravas was still rather put off by the fact that the deed had been done, yet still the latter half of their reward was nowhere to be found. They informed everyone in the vicinity who would listen—loudly, he might add.

It was only when they shoved their now-empty tankard aside, bid their goodbyes, and made to the door. It opened just as they went to reach for it, an imposing figure standing on the other side. Vaguely, out of his peripheries, Vilkas was aware of Skjor and Kodlak whipping around and tensing like a pair of deer. She cut an imposing figure, and her eyes were an eerie gold that was indisputably different from the feral yellow of the beastblood. A heavy pendant depicting the unmistakable symbol of Akatosh dangled from her throat.

Something about her made Vilkas feel insurmountably uneasy.

Kodlak stepped forwards, “Niravas, Vilkas, this is the, ah, client who commissioned your most recent contract.”

The woman inclined her head in greeting, making eye contact with Niravas and causing them to visibly stiffen. She smiled. They stood sharply from where they sat, chair screeching against the stone floor and damned near toppling over. They then whipped out the dragon horn, clutching it tightly before slamming it down on the table all the while staring intently at the woman who bore it all unflinchingly. Vilkas knew that look well: it said “come and get me”.

“You know, I was sceptical before, but,” She laughed, “Now, I see it.”

She turned to exit the room before anyone else could get a word in, articulating her exit by drawing a somewhat large satchel out of her coat and tossing it behind her. Niravas caught it easily, immediately inspecting it with eyes blown wide and ears twitching as they heard the telltale clinking of coin.

“ _Lok Thu’um_ ,” Was the last thing the woman said before the doors closed behind her once more.

* * *

_29th day of Last Seed, 4E 201_

“Where in Oblivion have you been?!” Brynjolf exclaimed as he entered the cistern.

Niravas had just arrived not even an hour ago, after having promptly booked it from Whiterun without so much as a by-your-leave. Jenassa would be pissed—Vilkas too, to be honest—but now here they sat on a tipped-back chair and their feet reclined on the tabletop. They knocked back their flask just as Karliah entered, Brynjolf trailing behind.

“Helgen,” They replied simply, “Didn’t you get my letter?” “It said ‘out fighting dragons’,” Karliah confirmed, producing said letter from a hidden pocket.

“And I was.”

“ _Why_?” Brynjolf interjected.

“That’s a long story, but in conclusion…”

And they promptly righted their posture and dumped the satchel of gold onto the table. A few drakes tumbled out, clinking rather loudly and echoing off the stone walls. A number of greedy gazes were immediately drawn to the sound, and though none would dare try anything when three of the Guild’s most prominent members stood just a hair's breadth away from such a prize, fingers still twitched. Niravas quickly swept up what fell and took up the satchel once more. That… Probably wasn’t the smartest move.

Karliah sighed, “Ancestors, Nira, what’ve you gotten yourself into?”

“It’s been a long past couple’a weeks, I’ll admit,” They said, rising and making their way over to Delvin at the table opposite and murmuring, “Add five thousand to the roster, Del.”

They didn’t give him time to react as they promptly exited the Flagon proper, into the cistern. Karliah and Brynjolf followed, badgering them with questions which Niravas made sure to sparsely answer until they reached their destination. There were only a few fellow guild members in this room (most of which being as fast asleep as a seasoned thief could ever hope to be), but it still wasn’t the best idea to take any chances. Both Brynjolf and Karliah pulled out dual copies of the same key and wordlessly opened the vault, Niravas not bothering with their own.

The heavy metal doors clicked softly before sweeping open without a sound. Inside had been restored as much as was able in not even two years, and was steadily filling itself with its former wealth. A few chests, Niravas noted, had managed to be filled nearly to the brim. They topped one of them off by dumping the contents of the satchel. Brynjolf let out a whistle as the gold and gems just continued to fall.

“ _Damn_.”

“Is this what they’re paying dragon hunters these days?” Karliah remarked.

“Evidently.”

Niravas could no longer dodge their questions after that. They started with the contract, and though they were furious that they accepted the job despite how obviously shady it is, Niravas reminded them off the payoff. Afterwards, they moved onto Helgen, carefully omitting the little details such as being able to hear the dragon actually speak. It was more difficult to hide the truth of the matter after that, and they ended up completely cutting any details about the Word Wall. The fight with _Mirmulnir_ they simplified down to that they managed to fell the beast after a lengthy battle. All of it was for naught, however, as Karliah followed up their story with a:

“You’re not telling us everything.”

 _Fuck_.

“Alright, so you know a few days ago when the dragon hit Whiterun? Well, I kinda maybe ate its soul?”

Brynjolf started, “Pardon.”

“You know, I recall others having quite the same reaction.”

“Anyways, then there were these, frankly, obscenely loud voices that called out and—”

“No, we know about that part,” He said, holding out a hand to pause them, “We felt the earthquake from here.”

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Karliah said, hand to the bridge of her nose like the entire conversation was giving her an awful headache, “You know we’ll have to consult _Her_ on this, right?”

Well, at least they were all in agreement there, but even if they weren’t, they’d have to concede to her wishes anyhow. Niravas felt like they were a newly minted Guild initiate again, and Karliah was once more giving all the orders rather than acting as their equal. However soft her voice always was, her words were commanding and not to be disputed.

When they exited back out into the Cistern proper, those few previously present were now gone, and the room felt icy and bleak. Well, at least that would save them the week’s ride all the way to Falkreath to reach the Sepulcher. A soft wind flitted by despite it being indoors, and the torches aside from those two on either side of the exit went out. They all visibly tensed, though Niravas remained behind while the other two hurried to the door. They could, after all, take a hint.

Before closing the door behind her though, Karliah called back in a tone that betrayed a scarce trace of worry, “Good Luck.”

Niravas well knew that those words weren’t just well-wishes, but a plea to their Patron to be merciful. Those final torchlights went out, and not even the faintest ember remained as they were swallowed in pitch blackness. The breeze ceased, but its whispering only increased until it became a cacophony. The statuette they kept of Lady Luck herself emitted a faint light, but not nearly enough to see by—not even with Niravas’ experience with navigating in the night.

The longer they stared at the effigy, the more it twisted and morphed into something else. It wasn’t long until the now-familiar face of Nocturnal was only inches away. She reached out with hands that peaked out of a cloak of pure shadows, and ghosted Her fingertips on their cheek. Though She didn’t make direct contact, their skin still stung with the cold of it. Her breath puffed out in a frigid mist as She spoke.

“It seems another one of my Nightingales has been wrenched from their perch”

Hesitant, they replied, “And that means..?”

“It means you are no longer only mine, Champion, but perhaps you soon shall be again,” She then added, “ _If_ you survive.”

“If I survive what exactly?”

“You think those were the only dragons that will grace these lands?”

They were silent for a long while, building up the courage to ask that one burning question, “Did you know? What I can do, that is.”

“Why do you think you were spared that night?” She replied with a ghost of a smile in Her tone if not on her lips.

“What would you have me do?”

“I suggest,” She began, “Doing what you must to return to me.”

“Meaning?”

“Fate has long since been steering you on this path. You must simply continue to walk it.”

And just like that She was gone, the darkness receding and warmth returning to the Cistern. The only evidence of her presence were the torches that were burned down to ash without even heat to betray that they had been lit mere moments ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started off... so lighthearted...
> 
> Hey lads, so you know what I said about being caught up enough to not have to take breaks in between arcs?? Well, anyways school is a bitch, so I'm gonna be skipping my next update time. I promise this hiatus will be pretty short, four weeks instead of two, and since I've been updating regularly enough I'm hoping that sounds convincing.
> 
> In the mean time, if anyone would like, I've been working on some backstory chapters. I've been trying to think of the best time to start posting those, and I guess now is as good a time as any.


	19. Diplomacy I

_14th day of Hearthfire, 4E 201_

The forest stretched out into an infinity before Vilkas, its trees ancient and towering pines. Twin blood moons shone so intensely above him that their light managed to permeate the thick canopy, bathing the forest a deep red just bright enough to see by. He was accosted by the sounds of various woodland creatures—owls hooting as they flew above, mice scampering through the fallen leaves, weevils burrowing down below—yet not a one in sight. Large mushrooms and swaths of moss flourished on the forest floor, and he found himself easily scaling a massive decaying log that was so long he couldn’t see either end.

In this place, he was no longer constrained by the fluctuation of the moons which usually determined how complete a werecreatures transformation was. He found himself morphing from man to wolf to any form in between with just a thought. There was neither cracking as bones realigned, nor the uncomfortable stretching of skin, nor the itchy shedding and regrowing of fur. He was as inconstant as smoke as he wandered aimlessly, struck by the vivid surreality of that boundless wood.

The peace was broken by the bugle of some far-off elk that echoed throughout the expanse like some distant whalesong. The vastness of the forest in that moment felt very much like the sea in that moment: unknowable and eternal. All rational thought left Vilkas in that moment as the desire to _hunt_ became overwhelming. He took off towards his quarry, snuffling at the ground as the heady scent of elk began to form a definite trail. It wasn’t long until it was finally within sight, the first creature Vilkas had ever seen since entering this place, if only just the mark of hooves dug into soft soil and the tail end disappearing into the brush as it ran.

It was only when he entered a clearing when the chase abruptly ended.

The elk stood tall and proud as the blood red moonlight shone down directly upon it. Vilkas tackled it to the ground in one swift motion, teeth digging sharply into the soft flesh of its throat. It’s carcass fell limp with its impressive set of antlers craning its already mangled neck at an awkward angle. Those dead bones then began to shift, much in the way Vilkas was capable of while here, and it eventually took the form of a man with the head of an elk. He noted that its throat was now completely healed and bearing its shaggy bearding once more.

Vilkas knew at once the visage of Hircine, managing to be both man and beast, both predator and prey all at once.

“You should feel honored, my child. You have been deemed worthy to hunt such _noble_ quarry.”

His voice was a thousand different things, coming from all directions: the snarl of a bear, the soft twitter of a songbird, the whistling of wind through the tree boughs. It all convulged together to form the imitating semblance of a voice. It took Vilkas a moment to finally find his own voice, so miniscule in comparison to this reverberating cacophony.

“What do you mean?”

“But be warned,” He continued on as if deaf to the question, “Should you let our Champion fall, so too shall we all.”

“‘Champion’?” Vilkas echoed, “You _can’t_ mean Niravas.”

“By the morrow shall they seek your aid. Be ready; there is no backing out now. You must finish what you started.”

Vilkas was about to reply, but was cut off by the feeling of earth quaking beneath his feet coupled with intense, rhythmic rumbling. He looked to Hircine, who seemed as unperturbed as ever.

“This wood is vast. You mistake yourself in believing we are alone.”

This had always been a God of few words, and He would be offering no more insight this night. His form twisted and morphed back into that of the fallen elk. Decay surged upon it, fungi growing up out of its quickly shedding skin, muscles atrophying right before Vilkas’ eyes. The putrid scent of death immediately overpowered the almost sweet fragrance of a fresh kill, causing his eyes to begin to water from the rapidity and proximity. Eventually, all that was left were pale, brittle bones that left a stark contrast upon the dark earth. All the while, the sounds continued as if some great thundering beast were coming his way. The trees swayed, and just as the sound became damned near deafening, they slowly parted to reveal—

Vilkas awoke to the pounding of a fist upon his door.

“Vil?” Called Farkas, muffled behind the door, “You awake yet? Aela’s coming down here with coffee soon, and if you’re not awake by then she’s going to pour it on you!”

Vilkas groaned, burying his face in the pillow for a moment before decided that perhaps Aela coming his way with a hot drink wasn’t something he wanted to experience again. The moment his feet touched the cold ground, however, what little respite he usually found in sleep was gone. He dressed and opened the door to see Farkas still waiting expectantly for him.

“What? Did something happen?”

“You could say that,” Farkas with a curious expression and a tension to his shoulders.

Vilkas wondered for the briefest of moments if his brother had also been visited by their Patron, but that thought was immediately put out of mind when Aela suddenly rounded the corner.

“I’m gonna kill them, I swear,” She grumbled before elaborating, “Your little thief friend is here.”

“Aye, should’ve figured,” Vilkas replied, recalling what He had said before thanking Aela and taking the mug.

He brushed past the both of them, pulling the door closed behind him. Upstairs, he was surprised to find the mead hall densely populated, with the sun pouring unabashedly through the windows. He rubbed at his sleep-ridden eyes, wondering if, perhaps, he was dreaming it all. He hadn’t even stayed up particularly late, so why was he only just now waking? Doubly so, considering he had to be awoken by Farkas passing on Aela’s well-meaning threats.

It was only when a hand clasped his shoulder that he realized he’d been staring dumbly at the hall for what must’ve been at least several seconds. He quickly whirled around to see Niravas. They were decked out in full traveling gear, hood still up but pushed back enough to reveal their features flushed from cold. Their expression was one of confusion and slight amusement.

“Mornings, yeah?” They said, accentuating this by taking a sip of their own coffee.

“What in the name of the Nine are you doing here?” Though he already knew the answer, whispered in his dreams by an Entity he knew owned his very soul.

Their casual smile fell by a minutia (so much so that Vilkas barely noticed), and they quickly glanced around, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

“Not particularly, even outside’s pretty crowded, unless— Here.”

He gestured them to follow as he turned right back around and descended into the living quarters. Even then, there were still a few people in the halls, either idly chatting or gathering together their things from behind the open doors of the communal whelp quarters. He continued along to his own quarters, pushing away the thought that this is, quite frankly, a terrible idea. Upon opening the doors, he turned to Niravas who had donned a rather mischievous expression.

“Ooh, bedroom? Y’know I only came here to talk, but this works, too.”

They then promptly flopped themself down upon his unmade bed, looking up at him with hooded eyes and that ophidian grin. He was caught between wanting to roll his eyes and joining them where they lay in mock-seduction against the sheets. A compromise, he merely sat down at the foot of the bed and looked at them expectantly.

“So talk,” He prompted.

“You’re no fun,” They accused, sitting up, “But contrary to popular belief, I _did_ come here for a reason.”

“Couldn’t have guessed.”

They snorted, “But really, what can you tell me about this whole Dragonborn thing?”

“Why the sudden interest? You didn’t seem to care three weeks ago.”

“Let’s just say I had a little push,” But they failed to elaborate further than that.

Their tone had grown suddenly somber upon saying that, causing Vilkas to really _look_ at them. He noticed several things all at once, things he never would’ve if it weren’t for Niravas’ usual energy and charisma. Their ears and fingers twitched nervously, dark circles ringed their eyes, and their hair was messily tied back—more so than usual, anyhow. They must’ve caught him staring, because they gave him a glare that said, _What?_.

“So what can you tell me?”

He shrugged, “As much as anyone else, I suppose.”

Which was, of course, a dirty lie. The only people he could think of who knew more about a legend that had fascinated him since childhood was a priest or specialty scholar.

“Essentially, the Dragonborn are— _you_ are—mortals whose souls are crafted by Akatosh.”

“Like the Septims, then?”

“No, they were Dragon-Blooded; it’s a bit different.”

“I take it they couldn’t do that scream-thing then?”

“It’s called _Shouting_ , but no, I don’t think so. There’s no record of it anyhow,” Hm, he’d have to look that up later.

“That’s a dumb name.”

“A bit,” He admitted, but continued, “Anyhow, legend has it that during the Dragon Wars, groups like the Blades or the Tongues managed to wipe out nearly all the dragons—except one.”

“That Alduin? The one mentioned on that weird stone?”

He nodded, “He’s Akatosh’s firstborn, and a God in His own right. The Tongues managed to defeat him, but it’s said he’ll return. He’ll only be able to be defeated by Akatosh’s final child.”

“Well shit,” Was about all they could muster up about their feelings on the matter.

“Which means we should probably go speak with the Greybeards.”

“Wait, ‘we’? You coming with, then?

“Of course,” He replied almost immediately, adding after the look they gave him, “Doubt you would survive the path if I didn’t.”

“Thanks for being so encouraging. So what in Oblivion’s a Greybeard.”

“The people who did _‘that scream-thing’_ after we killed the dragon. They were calling you to them.”

“Fun.”

* * *

 

_15th day of Hearthfire, 4E 201_

Niravas honestly wasn’t sure what landed them in this situation, and yet here they were on the road for the umpteenth time on some ridiculous quest. Sure, previously they had travelled between Riften and Whiterun, but even then they didn’t do so more than once a month. Now, however, it seems they’re making up for lost time after staying almost completely put while trying to patch the Guild back together. What was worse, they couldn’t even rightly refuse, not with Lady Luck breathing down their neck.

Vilkas, who road just ahead of them, wasn’t fairing much better. He bore a certain tension in his shoulders, a pensiveness to his voice that Niravas noted by refrained from commenting on. Prying rarely ever got them anywhere but in trouble, anyhow. Not to mention, they had their own problems to deal with. Niravas’ breath hitched as they looked to the path before them. It was a crossroads they had travelled to many times before. To the right lay the road to Riften, but they knew from glancing at their route on the map before leaving that their destination lay to the left.

But from the right came a figure, almost luminous in the way their eyes were immediately drawn to him as he stepped out from the treeline. They recognized him as a Heartlander, his smile upon seeing them could only be described as kind, though his eyes flashed gold in the midday sun. He wore simple robes cut in a style that they’d never seen used outside of Cyrodiil, and an amulet of what had to be pure gold emblazoned in what they recognized as the sigil of Auri-el. It was just like that woman that had made such an impression on them at Jorrvaskr. Vilkas stayed his horse, like Niravas, also staring at the man in shock.

“Friend or foe?” Niravas called out after him.

“Friend, assuredly,” He quickly replied, “I’m merely making my way to Ivarstead to undertake the pilgrimage. I’m a priest of Akatosh, see.”

“We happen to be doing quite the same,” Vilkas said, causing the priest’s eyes to light up.

“Say, would it be too much trouble if I accompany you? I’ll keep walking, even. It can be dangerous out here in the wilds alone, and you lot look like you can handle yourselves in a fight,” He added, gesturing to the blades strapped to their hips.

“Go right ahead, priest.”

Niravas gave him a look, but he just shrugged, apparently not seeing the harm in letting a complete stranger follow them.

“Many thanks.”

The priest took Vilkas’ words literally, walking on ahead of their horses, which had to slow slightly to match his gait, but that wasn’t what bothered Niravas. At least the woman from before seemed shifty, but this man? He was nothing if not polite, and smiled a little too easily. He wasn’t even particularly remarkable, hair and dress neat but not immaculate. Those were traits Niravas always had a natural distrust in, even if it weren’t for the necklace and the eyes.

He never caused trouble, however; merely walked ahead of them and occasionally made small talk. He spoke calmly, but softly, sometimes managing to coax some conversation out of the both of them. All it really amounted to was Niravas being able to gleam small details about what the journey up High Hrothgar would entail. Honestly they weren’t sure what they expected from a journey up a mountain called the Throat of the World, but they still managed to be promptly filled with distress by the phrase “Seven Thousand Steps”.

All in all, it was an interesting few hours.

Just before nightfall, they reached their destination, a tiny little village called Ivarstead. Niravas had no doubt that it was only kept afloat by the copious travellers looking to undergo the pilgrimage. Vilkas even told them that he himself had also paid homage to the age old tradition at one point. He ducked into the only tavern in town to go buy a room, but when Niravas made to follow, the priest stayed them with a hand on their shoulder.

“Wait a moment, will you? I wish to tell you something important.”

Niravas jerked out of his grasp, “What?”

“You made the right choice there, you know,” He said, the gold in his eyes more prominent in the shadows of dusk. “Pardon?”

“You could have simply taken the other path, gone home, gone on with your life.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Back there at the crossroads. In fact, you could still turn around even now.”

“Aye, I could. So?”

“So, you’ll always have that choice, I just hope you’ll keep making the right one.”

They itched to reach for one of the daggers tucked away in their sleeve, “Who are you people? Who d'you work for?”

“We are simply here to help guide you along the right path. This time, I wasn’t even needed,” He noted, “How marvelous.”

“Niravas,” Vilkas called as he peeked his head out the tavern door, “Come on!”

Niravas made the mistake of turning to look, and swore when they saw that the priest took his chance to disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New arc, new quest, new cameos! Not even very subtle ones either...
> 
> So, I know I said that I would only be skipping an update once in between arcs, but AP exams are coming up. Fuuunnn. Anyways, every time I sit down to write, I get an email about a new assignment being posted, so I'll be keeping with this slower update pattern until summer.
> 
> In the meantime, when I would usually be posting chapters for this, instead I'll be updating HIANUY with the chapters I've already had typed up for a while


	20. Diplomacy II

_16th day of Hearthfire, 4E 201_

Vilkas awoke the next morning to the bed minutely shuffling. Despite the slightness of the movement, it was enough to wrest him suddenly from sleep. He opened his eyes to see Niravas, still partially undressed, by the side of the bed. They stretched, causing several bones to crack with varying intensity and the tension in their shoulders relieved some. That odd burn scar he remembered seeing over a year previous peaked out from under the collar of their shirt, looking even more raw and red in the dawn light pouring in from the window. He sat up, opening his mouth to ask, but stopped when he heard the clinking of coin.

“Are you counting money? Is this just what you do first thing in the morning?”

“Hm? No, I’m—Here it is!”

They held up an object that glinted faintly in the light, and flipped it up to Vilkas. He turned it over, examining it while Niravas looked on expectantly.

He raised a brow, “It’s an old coin.”

“No! Well yes, but look at who’s on it.”

“Some emperor, and it’s dated—Oh... 4e 1.”

He knew the name without even having to examine the rest of the coin. After all, how could he forget a name that had been plastered across the history books since the Fourth Era began? Martin Septim: the bastard son of the Septim line and the only one able to relight the Dragon Fires. He’d barely been emperor for a year before giving his life in the name of his people.

“S'the guy!”

“What guy?”

“That priest from yesterday. Come on, I know y’didn’t drink that much last night. We were barely in the tavern an hour.”

“Well, I’m a bit worried _you_ did. The man on this coin died two hundred years ago.”

“I’d bet money s'him.”

“Do you know how many bastard Septims there’ve been?” Vilkas held up the coin for emphasis, “This man certainly wasn’t the only one.”

“I’m telling you, doll,” They insisted, “The resemblance is fucking uncanny.”

Vilkas simply rolled his eyes. Honestly, they could believe whatever they wanted. It was early and he wasn’t too keen on pressing the issue. He rolled out of the small inn bed, determined to get in a warm breakfast before making the trek up the mountain. With all this constant travel, he was getting damned sick of rations.

Outside, what was previously a dreary little town was— Well, actually it was still a dreary little town, but this time in sunlight. The dawn gave it a bit more character, however. It was a sort of hominess that you didn’t get in larger towns like Whiterun. It hadn’t changed even a bit since he’d last been here. He’d only stayed long enough to complete the pilgrimage, but he could’ve sworn even the people were the same.

Out on the outskirts, a weathered stone bridge arched over a river, and upon it stood a pair of people. One was a Nord that appeared as old and seasoned as the cobble beneath his feet, and the other was a Bosmer who, despite likely being double their companion‘s age, was sprightly as any youth. The Nord had slung across his back a large oilskin sack that caused him to hunch. He seemed to be attempting to make his way down the path, but the Bosmer stood in his way. They perked up upon seeing Vilkas and Niravas approach.

“Oh, thank Y'ffre. Can you please tell this old fool that it’s madness to make the pilgrimage in his condition?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Butted in the old Nord.

“Last time the cold made you so sick with fever you almost died! Face it, Klimmek, you’re getting old.”

Klimmek looked like he was going to snap back, but instead sighed in resignation. “Aye, but _someone_ needs to get these supplies to the Greybeards.”

Well, what kind of Companion would Vilkas be to turn down a man in need?

“Hand the bag over here, old man,” Vilkas offered, adding, “No, really, it’s along the way anyhow,” When he seemed hesitant.

“Nine bless you,” He said as he traded over his burden, “I’ll not let this go unrepaid. At the top, there’s an offering chest where you can leave that. Otherwise, watch for wolves, or maybe the odd bear or two.”

When the pair had profusely thanked them once more before retreating back into the village, Niravas looked to Vilkas and the heavy package that hung from Vilkas’ back by strained leather.

“Someone’s feeling magnanimous today. What’s the occasion?”

“Trying not to have to see that codger collapsed on the path because his legs weren’t what they used to be.”

“Fair,” Niravas shrugged, “But say, did y’hear what he said about being ‘repaid’?”

“Please don’t extort that old man.”

* * *

 

Niravas had said several times that they hated Skyrim, but right now they really meant it. Morrowind and Cyrodiil may have been mountainous in certain areas, but this was fucking overkill. Not to mention, it was _freezing_. Not usual Skyrim freezing either. They were nearly blinded as their eyes watered from each breath of cold air that rushed past and they could feel ice crunch in their hair as they moved their head. Even Vilkas seemed slightly bothered by it, wincing when a particularly harsh wind whipped past.

They had been hearing the howls of wolves for nearly an hour now, and Niravas dreaded having to draw their blade when their fingers were already so stiff they could barely feel them even gloved and in their pockets. Thankfully however, as local wildlife is wont to do in the presence of a werebeast, they kept their distance.

Niravas wondered if it was true what Vilkas had said: that winter comes earlier in the mountains because if this wasn’t winter, they would threaten to flee the country and leave Skyrim to its dragon issue. As time went on, they could even swear it was somehow getting _worse_. Niravas was only vaguely aware of their frozen ears perking up as they heard the sound of large footsteps trudging through the snow. Accompanying it was a snuffling sort of grunting. They both stopped in their tracks, desperate to gleam out their adversary while half blinded from the frigid winds.

“Nine, please tell me that’s a bear and not what I think it is,” Vilkas muttered.

“I hate to break it to you, doll, but—”

They were cut off by a deafening roar followed by the hulking silhouette of an absolutely massive troll quickly approaching.

“ _Fuck_.”

Vilkas immediately drew his blade, taking a defensive position and holding his ground as the beast approached. Niravas forwent their usual daggers, knowing their smaller size would do little against a creature with hide that thick, and instead reaching for the shortsword on their hip. It mistakenly believe Vilkas to be the greater threat, unaware of the ancient words Niravas hissed out under their breath. They felt the blade of the shortsword beginning to heat until it was a bright orange beacon despite the freezing winds threatening to douse it.

All the while, Niravas took careful, calculated steps forwards. They were wearing mostly dark clothing, but Vilkas never let the beast take its eyes off him. He moved with a speed they didn’t think possible in such bulky clothing and armor. Unfortunately, trolls were known for their surprising swiftness; he and it being nearly at a match. But Niravas didn’t need him to kill the damned thing, or even weaken it. They just needed a distraction.

The beast managed to land only a single hit throughout the fight, its fist connecting with Vilkas’ forearm with a sickening sound that reverberated over the howling winds. He grimaced, but otherwise continued fighting as if the injury had never occured, able to deliver a far harsher blow with his blade to the its chest. The wound bled freely, matting into its shaggy fur as it was launched into a rage.

Vilkas easily dodged just as the troll lunged at him, briefly on all fours. Before it could spring up in time for Vilkas’ next attack, Niravas leapt upon the creature’s back. The slick, icy stone beneath their feet caused their foot to slip into an awkward angle. Niravas winced as they felt it crunch as their weight fell upon it, but there wasn’t time to worry about that now. They grasped at it’s thick fur for purchase before driving their blade home in the back of its neck. Hot, near-boiling blood spilled onto their hands and sizzling where it hit the snow.

“Shit,” Vilkas huffed, out of breath, “I thought that old man said _bears_ were the worst we’d face.”

“I think I need a new sword,” Niravas announced, holding their ruined one up for emphasis.

The incantation had already quickly began to fade, the blade going from a bright scarlet back to a dull grey in seconds. Though they had attempted to extend their own barrier that kept magic from damaging the user out onto the blade, it didn’t seem to do much. Any mage worth their salt would’ve been able to pull it off without issue, but they never had been good with anything other than “lighting shit on fire,” as they had so aptly put it. That left their blade twisted and mangled where the heat had left it hot enough to warp.

Vilkas shrugged, “It’ll do in a pinch. Besides, I’m sure you have about eight more blades squirreled away somewhere.”

“S‘insulting. I’ve always got at least twelve.”

The rest of the path was by no means easier. The wind and snow continued to pick up until it couldn’t be considered anything less than a storm. The adrenaline from battle had worn off, and the only thing numbing the pain from their ankle was the cold. They wouldn’t lie, it was doing a remarkably fine job. Still, they walked on a little delicately, raising concerned glaces from Vilkas. It didn’t escape their notice that he held his arm close to his chest.

The storm only continued to worsen, making what little distance was left stretch infinitely onwards. Trudging on through the increasingly deepening snow, nerves began to pool in their gut. It was like a creeping sense of foreboding clinging to their back, digging its claws in deeper and deeper as they ascended.

It felt like hours until they could make out the looming silhouette of a towering fortress through the swirling cloud of white all around them. Niravas still wasn’t entirely sure how they’d managed to make it up that last stretch of stairs as the heavy monastery doors heaved open then slammed behind them from the force of the wind.

The sound echoed off the chiseled stone walls. Accompanying it was a set of rapid footsteps belonging to an old man that rushed to the doors.

“So, a Dragonborn has appeared at this moment, at the turning of an age,” He marvelled in a voiced that boomed and yet still felt muted.

It didn’t escape their notice that he directed this at Vilkas. “Um… Hi?” They said, stepping before him.

“Yes... ‘hi’,” The Greybeard replied, shock crossing his features for a moment, but quickly recovering, “Come, rest by the fire a moment, then we will see if you truly have the gift.”

The fire he spoke of was one of several lit braziers across the temple, and it felt absolutely fucking divine. They both shrugged off their travel cloaks and boots, laying them flat on the floor near the heat, and began to see to their wounds. They were mostly minor, but even the smallest of paper cuts always seem to hurt the worst. Niravas’ ankle was red and swollen where they rolled it, and Vilkas was sporting a nasty looking bruise across his forearm. A number of other men in exact garbs crowded around them mutely. One, noticing their sorry state, brought a poultice that numbed the area it was applied and a set of bandages. He didn’t reply when Vilkas thanked them, nor when he handed off the bag of supplies.

Niravas huffed upon seeing Vilkas fumble with tying off the bandage on his arm with only one hand, and reached over to correct the knot. When the bandage was securely in place, Niravas was suddenly hyper-aware of their proximity in a way they’d never been before. To say the least, it took them by surprise. Sure, since this journey began they’d been sharing tents and beds and whatever else—mostly out of practicality—and they’d even shared a bed in a quite _different_ sense. This, however, was different, intimacy borne out of a kind but unnecessary gesture. It was plain Vilkas was having a similar revelation, the skin beneath his stubble not just going pink from the cold. He went to say something but they quickly cut him off.

“Your beard’s getting long,” Niravas blurted out, ears burning violet.

They promptly got up and pretended the whole thing never happened. They only got a brief glance at his expression before they turned their attention to the Greybeard, who—though obviously trying to hide it— stood antsily off to the side. He sighed in relief at finally being no longer being ignored, his fellows that had quickly gathered sharing a similar reaction in silence.

“Before we can proceed, you must prove to us that you truly are Dovahkiin.”

“Well, I like gold and I’m pretty good at setting shit on fire. Those are dragon-y things, yeah?”

“No, I meant you need to use the Voice.”

“Oh, right.”

“Come now, strike us with the power of your voice.” “Like… At you? Just right at you?”

He sighed heavily, “Yes, just—”

He was caught off guard, nearly toppling over at the sudden _Fus_ that pushed him back several feet. They tried not to crack a smile at that, vaguely aware of Vilkas pinching the bridge of his nose out of the corner of their eye. The Greybeard quickly righted himself, looking at them in awe and a strange sort of reverence that made Niravas want to promptly walk right back outside into the storm.

“Dragonborn, it _is_ you,” He breathed in awe, “It is an honor to welcome you here to High Hrothgar.”

“Uh, thanks.”

He introduced himself, “I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards.”

Niravas stifled a laugh as Vilkas said, “You mean that literally, don’t you?”

Arngeir suddenly looked very tired then, as if he’d hoped Vilkas would be the more mature of the two but was just proven wrong. He directed his attention back to Niravas. “Now tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here?”

“I dunno if you’re aware, but you lot are pretty loud.”

Arngeir just stared in consternation like he wasn’t sure they were being serious.

“...We’re aware.”

“But I suppose the dragons are a bit of an issue. Bad for business, y’know.”

“We have a _lot_ of work to do,” He muttered after a moment’s silence, “Now, while your Thu’um is impressive, it is nonetheless incomplete. Master Einarth will teach you the second of three words of Unrelenting Force.”

The Greybeard mentioned inclined his head as he stepped forth. He spoke in only the softest of tones, and yet the very groundwork of the monastery shuddered as the tile beneath his feet began to glow. The ghosts of two letters burned themselves into the tile and looked to be etched in by rending claws. They automatically transcribing themselves in Niravas’ mind as _Ro_.

“Learning a Word, of course, is not the same as _knowing_ it,” Arngeir explained, “You must unlock its meaning through constant practice and meditation, taking years of study.”

“That sounds awful.” “Lucky for you then, that as Dragonborn you can absorb a slain dragon’s life force and knowledge directly. As part of you initiation, Master Einarth will also let you tap into his understanding of _Ro_.”

His voice crackled with pure energy as the word left his mouth.

“Wait, initia—”

They were cut off when Einarth began to glow, just as Mirmulnir had, and Niravas feared for a moment that he would dissolve into the aether, that when the light had abated he would quite literally be skin and bones.

Instead, all they got was a headache as the glow leapt into their eyes and _Ro_ was no longer just a sound, not even just a word, but an entire understanding. A philosophy, even, for _force_ is nothing without _balance_. Niravas groaned, blinking the spots out of their vision.

“Now,” He instructed, “Demonstrate what you have learned.”

“At you again?”

“You know, on second thought…”

* * *

 

Vilkas had watched as Niravas began their mastery of the Thu’um, spending hours out in the freezing courtyard as Arngeir instructed them to pass various trials. The sky was now clear, stars blinking above them. The snow that must’ve been waist deep had been easily cleared away by a few choice words. It had been a wonder to behold as they commanded what was quite literally the magics of the gods, far more powerful than anything a mortal could hope to conjure up. Vilkas was thankful in that moment the kind of time and dedication it took for anyone (besides Niravas, that is) to take up the craft, knowing full well the sort of devastation easy use would cause.

The final trial was one of quite a different sort, one that tested Niravas’ commitment rather than their ability: to recover the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. The name made Vilkas flinch, only a letter off and sounding slightly different, but of course any Nord worth their salt would recognize the name. He was, after all, one of the most important figures in Skyrim history. He, recalling the stories from deep in history books he’d hoarded as a child and from later campfire nights when someone would be goaded into telling the tale, relayed the basic outline of the events to Niravas.

They lay there half asleep in the bed they had been offered for the night, “Dunno if he were at Red Mountain, but most Dunmer focus on Nerevar and Dumac and all them, so I suppose he could’ve been.”

They had fallen asleep shortly after, but, as had been the case more often than not, Vilkas found himself completely unable to sleep. He looked across the dark room, beast eyes able to make out the Niravas’ silhouette curled up in a cocoon of blankets on their own little bed, dead to the world. He sighed, exiting the room and hoping a short walk would banish the insomnia plaguing him. He was surprised to come across a Greybeard Arngeir had identified as Borri, reading by candlelight. Despite the fact that Vilkas didn’t utter a word, Borri understood well enough of Vilkas trouble, smiled, and handed him a book. Vilkas thanked him and returned to the room he shared with Niravas.

“Where’d you go?” Niravas said, sitting up.

“Can’t sleep, so I got a book,” He shrugged.

They let out a laugh, “How’re you gonna read that? Even lycans can’t read in this dim.”

He looked down at the book, barely able to make out the large title on the cover as the door shut behind him and blocked out the hallway braziers.

“Oh.”

“Bring me a candle,” They murmured, lighting it with a whisper when he did.

Vilkas thanked them, settling down in the bed with the book in his lap. He managed to get about a chapter in before exhaustion began to take hold. Another chapter and he might just be drowsy enough to sleep properly.

“What’re you reading?” Niravas slurred sleepily.

“Hm? It’s about the Dragon Wars. At the beginning of each chapter, it has a transcription of the etchings from those old obelisks along the path.”

“What obelisks?”

“It was snowing a bit too hard to notice them, but I remember them from my first pilgrimage.”

“When?”

“With Kodlak awhile back. He took me, Farkas, and Aela when we were young. It’s like a rite of passage.”

He looked back to see them once more passed out. Vilkas shut the book, gently blowing out the candle, the fire dying in a whisper as it was made. He fondly dreamed that night of old reminiscents, of that warm summer day on the Path of Seven Thousand Steps all those years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I'm a couple days late! My computer broke (again) and I've managed to keep it alive but I either need a new hard drive or a new computer, so... yeah


	21. Diplomacy III

_25th day of Hearthfire, 4E 201_

“Well, this is anticlimactic,” Niravas announced to no one in particular.

They stepped carefully over the ancient stones as they looked down to the creaking stairs that led deep into the ground.

“Thought it’d be a bit… I dunno, _more_. Even that Barrow place had its own little fortress up top.”

Vilkas shrugged, “Maybe it used to. The place is old and, unlike the Barrow, in the middle of a field. Easier to get to and tear down than the top of a mountain.”

“Doesn’t stop you Nords, though, does it? I hear climbing the biggest fuck-off mountain in sight is a _pass time_.”

They had been on the road for upwards of a week now. They had spent nearly an entire day just making it back down the mountain to the little village at the base to pick up their horses, and traveled yet another day and well into the night to get back to Whiterun. The next day or so passed by easily as they traversed the Plain of Kings. It was only when they hit one of the many mountainscapes offshooting from the Jerral that things became more difficult. Niravas wasn’t afraid to admit they had gotten downright _pissy_ during several moments there, but not being able to feel your fingers and only being able to breathe out of half your nose for days on end does that to a person. It was the kind of thing that made them remember why, even in their days when they could boast travelling through a good portion of Tamriel, they absolutely refused to go this far north.

The ruin they were trying to locate was evidently _somewhere_ in between Morthal, Solitude, and Dawnstar. Niravas groaned when they saw the several islands spotting the Sea of Ghosts in the general vicinity of where Arngeir had pointed out when discussing their trial. Morthal had been the closest of the three cities where they opted to stay for a night. A local in the inn, the Moorside, thankfully happened to recognize the name and gave them some more concrete directions.

“Careful though. There’s a Stormcloak camp thereabouts, and sometimes their soldiers come ‘round talking about some bandits and warlocks’ve been fighting over the area. Not to mention the local wildlife…”

After that frost troll in the mountain, Niravas had steadfastly refused to think about it.

Good thing they didn’t have to, too, as they faced little to no trouble setting out from the city. Encountering the Stormcloaks had been an experience all on its own, however, their patrols combing the area for any Imperials from the camp just north. It was amusing watching as they looked at Niravas with disdain, but bit back their tongues in the presence of Vilkas as they recognized the wolf insignia on his armor.

They wouldn’t have realized they had arrived at Ustengrav if it weren’t for the group of black-cloaked mages slinging spells at a bunch of common bandits. It wasn’t a difficult battle to win, as most were half frostbitten and weary from constant fighting. The majority ran when they saw a pair of well-equipped, well-trained warriors simply stroll on in to their camp, but a couple thought they could handle themselves just fine. They thought _wrong_ of course, but still, it was the thought that counts, they supposed.

Which brings Niravas to staring into a frankly disappointing hole in the ground.

“Just shut up and let’s get this over with,” Vilkas huffed, “Unlike you, I don’t fancy _grave robbing_.”

* * *

Vilkas scrunched up his nose as he heaved the doors open, the musty scent of the tomb mixing unpleasantly with freshly spilled blood, unwashed bodies, and electric crackle of magic in the air. A single figure was the only that still stood, a young mage. They desperately attempted to whisper some incantation, flames twisting around their fingers for a moment before flickering out quite obviously as a result of depleted magicka. They went for their dagger, prompting Niravas to go for theirs, but Vilkas stayed their hand.

“Go along, would you?” Vilkas prompted, “We’ve no quarrel with you.”

The young mage gulped, letting their shaky hand leave the hilt of their blade but ultimately holding their ground.

Niravas snapped, “C’mon, get out of here!”

They let out a squeak as they rushed past the two, and off towards the entrance. Vilkas watched them as they scurried off, only to turn back around to see Niravas crouched over one of the several corpses littering the chamber.

“Are you serious?”

“What?” They said in mock-innocence, pocketting a septim.

He merely raised a brow

“You’re no fun,” They replied, flicking the coin back to where it clattered onto the floor. “Least lemme loot the room, if not the bodies.”

“Fine,” He sighed, “But be quick about it.”

A trail of bodies continued to line their way down the cavern, including, they soon found, those of the undead. They stalked the halls, rotting tendons that shouldn’t be able to work allowing them to restlessly grip their weapons. Despite what he knows Niravas likes to think, Vilkas is quite capable of quietly sneaking. Sure, the armor doesn’t really help, but the twisting, labyrinthine halls made it more than easy to simply avoid the majority of the draugr rather than fighting them all at once.

It took some searching and retracing of steps, but eventually Niravas—who by this point seemed to pay more attention to all the ancient coins scattered about then the undead—managed to locate a secret door. Vilkas simply shrugged as they looked to him, their hand hovering over the chain. He clutched his sword tight as he warily stared down the entrance to the room, ready for any oncoming draugr as Niravas worked the door open behind him. He gritted his teeth as an awful screeching noise rang out, echoing against the winding tunnels.

It didn’t come as a surprise when the sound was closely followed by a series of uneven, shambling footsteps.

“Fuck _me_ ,” He swore.

“Don’t you think this is a bad time for it, doll?”

He scowled, shoving Niravas ahead as a pair of draugr entered the room. Several more were behind, spilling in as he ducked under the doorway. He crouched down into a defensive stance, fully prepared to defend their position, but was quickly tugged backwards. The door slammed up in front of him, the heavy blow of an ancient warhammer thundering against the other side. He turned to see Niravas’ hand tightly grasping a lever with a wild, panicked look in their eyes.

The path ahead, lit more dimly than those previous, didn’t stretch out far. It ended abruptly in a massive iron-cast door that had been tempered by ancient Nordic techniques to rusting in its long centuries beneath the earth. It opened out into a massive chamber held aloft by towering pillars.

The sun shone down from what must’ve been at least half a mile above and lit up a sparkling brook that babbled and bubbled down below. Several pine trees grew in the patches of ground where the sun managed to touch, but even their towering branches barely managed to reach even a third of the height of the chamber. They skirted along the paths that dotted the edge, weaving in and out of the stone they were carved directly into. The few draugr in their way boasted such decayed and withered forms that they barely put up a fight.

Vilkas made to continue on the main path, but Niravas tugged him off into another direction.

At his ensuing questions, they merely answered, “There’s something over here,” with that glossy gaze he’d seen on them in the barrow.

The path lead down to the water below, the roar of the waterfall almost deafening. Niravas suddenly ran up ahead, and when Vilkas caught back up they were already approaching the carved wall before them. Just as back in the barrow it began to emit a ghostly light, growing brighter with every step they took. Their expression was trance-like as they laid a hand upon it.

“ _Feim…_ ” They muttered, as if tasting the word upon their tongue. “What?”

“Fuck if I know.”

They huffed, turning on a heel and returning back the way they had come. The path they’d directed was suddenly cut off by a trio of barred gates sealed into the stone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out how to open them. Three stone pillars stood adjacent to one another before the gates, illuminating the cavern in a deep red light when either of them stepped within proximity.

“I see the Greybeards didn’t teach you that shout for no reason,” Vilkas noted.

“Ugh, the fast one?” Niravas sneered, “Throws off my whole sense of balance.”

Vilkas watched as Niravas rolled their eyes dramatically. They murmured something under their breath, something that Vilkas couldn’t quite make out despite the fact that it was somehow simultaneously deafening and whispered. It caused a faint light to silhouette around them, and they scurried to the other side in only a fraction of the time it should have taken.

* * *

Niravas fought a wave of vertigo as they came to a stop, the surge of power thrumming around them fading. They jumped as a weight suddenly settled down on their shoulder, whirling around to see Vilkas standing just behind them donning a worried expression.

“Niravas?”

Gods, they must’ve checked out for a moment there. They looked down to see the platform they stood upon glowing with that same light. The gates were still held up into the stone, but dropped as the two of them stepped into the room. Further on, the room faded into near pitch blackness, and Niravas was forced to navigate by silhouettes left by what little light remained. Further on, Niravas caught the scent of oil and scorch. (They noted Vilkas making a face like he’d come across a dead and bloated netch. Now, it certainly didn’t smell _great_ , but they supposed Vilkas’ sense of smell far outstripped theirs.)

The reason for this became extremely clear as Niravas took a step forth and suddenly the floor beneath them belched out flames.

They leapt back in surprise, Vilkas steadying them where they almost fell flat on their ass. They enchantments on their armor took the worst of the burns, and though their face had taken a bit of a scalding, their people healed easily from minor burns.

“Come on, we’ll just walk along the edge here,” Which sounds like a decent plan until they became aware of the chamber before them.

The positively massive figure of a frostbite spider came looming out of the darkness with quite a similar idea. It scrabbled along the walls and what little bit of flooring. Behind it lie an arching cavern, walls coated in sticky spider silk, aiding in its ascent. In clutches, scattered about the edges, were dozens of unhatched egg sacks wriggling and writhing from the young within. The hiss of their protective mother came out more as a low growl, and Niravas and Vilkas both drew their weapons.

It lunged for Vilkas, the larger target, and the suddenness of the attack left him unable to retaliate. Instead, its weight threw him off balance as it attempted to pin him down. This proved to be its undoing, however, as when Vilkas began to topple backwards, Niravas caught hold of his arm, tugging him back to safety. The spider wasn’t so lucky, it being flung back onto the ground. It let out a shrill sound of sheer pain as it was enveloped in the inferno erupting from below, the weight of it ensuring that the flames would not cease until it was rendered only an ashen husk.

Shaken by the encounter, they attempted to navigate to the edge of the room where the floor was solid stone once more in order to take a breath. In dismay, Niravas found that all other exits were blocked by webbing and they were forced to call a bit of fire to their command in order to burn their way out.

Looking into the next chamber, Niravas couldn’t believe their eyes.

“Are you fucking _shitting_ me.”

“What more spiders? Draugr?” Vilkas inquired.

“I wish. Look,” They said, pointing to the pedestal at the end of the room they had yet to enter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

From what they could see, the pedestal lay empty.

They both cautiously crept into the room, ceiling arching high above them. They carefully watched every corner for any sign of danger, and when something began rising out of the water Niravas’ daggers were in their hands faster than they could blink. They turned out to only be overly-ostentatious stone carvings, and they decided they very much did _not_ like that.

What they decidedly somehow liked even less was the note left on the pedestal:

_“Dragonborn —_

_I need to speak to you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you._

_— A friend”_

“I’m gonna have a fucking aneurysm,” Niravas announced.

Vilkas looked around incredulously, “How did they even get _in_ here? There’s no corpses, and they even got past that mother spider!”

“They may’ve survived the spider but they ain’t gonna survive me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I'm finally almost done with exams. I have one more on Wednesday then I'm on summer break. I'll continue with the current posting schedule until I finish HIANUY (ya know, the backstory one), then we should (?) be back onto this thing's normal schedule.
> 
> Hopefully.
> 
> I finally caught up with myself and no longer have any chapters written ahead, which is a bummer.


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